


Ghost Story

by TheHoardingPuffin



Series: Whatever you’ve promised, whatever you've done [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alexandria Safe-Zone (Walking Dead), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Asexual Daryl Dixon, Canon-Typical Violence, Carl Grimes Lives, Carl Grimes-centric, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Hurt Carl Grimes, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, One-Eyed Carl Grimes, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:35:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 38,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27236605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHoardingPuffin/pseuds/TheHoardingPuffin
Summary: After the Governor attacked the prison, Carl ran for his life.It took him a while to realize that nobody was following him. That he was alone.Since he had nowhere to go, he just kept running.He had to get somewhere sometime. He had to find his family again.
Relationships: Beth Greene & Carl Grimes, Carl Grimes & Negan, Carl Grimes & Original Character(s), Carl Grimes & Rick Grimes, Daryl Dixon/Rick Grimes/Michonne, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Rick Grimes & Negan
Series: Whatever you’ve promised, whatever you've done [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2046026
Comments: 108
Kudos: 80





	1. The same old questions asked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlasNerd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlasNerd/gifts), [xXQueenofDragonsXx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXQueenofDragonsXx/gifts).



> So over the past few months I re-discovered my love for TWD (and my still very strong attachement to my comfort character No.1 Carl Grimes) - and with it, I also found a notebook I kept when I was watching TWD live (which was when Season 7 was on in Germany, so... two or three years ago now? Maybe more, I am not sure... anyhow) and in which I had written down a lot of plotpoints for a potential fanfiction. And I decided to sit down and use all my notes to finally write this story down. I changed some things here of course, but eh... So, updates won't be coming fast, because Uni starts for me next week, but I will try my best. Also, a small warning: Some of the chapters will switch between a "Then" and a "Now" perspective.  
> A note on the "gifted to" thingy - while any possible resemblance to other fanfictions is entirely coincidental since I wrote most of the main plotpoints a good while ago, it was the stories of xXQueenofDragonsXx and AtlasNerd that inspired me to actually write this thing and post it, so that's why I figured it was appropriate to gift it to them.  
> Anything else? No, I don't think so. Reviews are always appreciated though!  
> Loads of love, Lotta

It was raining topside.

Like thunder, very fittingly, sounded the hooves of the mount on the ground, _tha-dump tha-dump tha-dump_ at rapid speed.

The wind was whipping into the face of the rider, leaving the parts not covered up feeling numb and sore at the same time. He heard his own rapid breathing in his ears, and the panting of the horse, and the wind in the treetops above. The snarling of the Dead wasn’t audible at the moment, but the rain couldn’t cover up their smell. Close, now.

His ears were filled with screams, thundering gunshots, the noise of fences and maybe even walls breaking down in gigantic clouds of dust and debris. He was running, clutching his gun so tightly that his knuckles were white, and he was breathing heavily enough that he was sure everyone in a three-mile-radius could hear him.

It didn’t matter.

His muscles were screaming, protesting against the sudden unexpected exercise, his ears and his teeth hurt – _why the hell did his teeth hurt from fucking running?_ – and his heart was beating way too fast.

It didn’t matter.

Just keep running.

Keep fucking running.

_Woosh! Slash! Whump!_

The blade was cutting through rotten flesh like through butter. Snarling, hissing and snapping filled the air, seemingly deafening in the silence of the surroundings. The horse snorted and yelped, jumping around and dancing nervously, bucking and kicking.

“Whoa.”

The rider jammed the machete down, then ripped it upwards and cut off a head on his other side.

“You’re okay, calm down. You’re okay.”

The horse whinnied and bucked again.

“You’re okay, they’re all dead.”  
Another little yelp.

“Be quiet!” He sighed. “Let’s go home.”

He had found a tree that he could climb relatively easily, and now he was sort of cowering in a fork between three big branches, bracing his back against the tree trunk and trying to catch his breath. He was shaking like a leaf. His hands were trembling so much that he couldn’t hold his knife anymore, or his gun, so he had shoved them into his belt and hoped for the best.

The skin on his bottom lip was almost entirely chewed through, the corner of his mouth torn in and burning every time he swallowed or tries to wet his lips with his tongue. His eyes burned, too, tears drying into salty trails on his face.

It was getting cold.

And dark.

 _How_ had this even happened? How had this gone so wrong so fast? How, _how_?!

His chest hurt. His face hurt.

How had it gone so _wrong_?

They had thought they were safe. _Safe_. How the hell had they believed that this concept still worked out? In this fucked up world, how could they be safe? Ever?

They had thought they were safe, and then, suddenly, the Governor had been there at their gates, with a small army and a fucking tank – how had he even found enough gas to move that thing?! – threatening them, mocking them, all of it at once.

All of them at once.

Nobody had been safe, ever. How had they become so careless?

He hugged himself tightly and pressed his jaws together until it almost hurt, just to keep himself from crying out loud. In fear and grief, in sheer overwhelming.

How… how?

He took a shuddering breath. Then another one.

In. Out. In. Out.

He forced himself to be calm, or at least as calm as he could muster.

Assess the situation.

The Governor had attacked them and their home. Fact.

It was unlikely many, if any, of the others – including his Dad and his sister – had gotten away like he did. Fact.

It was still a possibility though. Fact.

His father would find him soon. Not a fact. A hope, and a struggling one at that.

Someone would find him soon. Not a fact, per say, but more likely than his Dad, specifically, finding him.

He could not stay up here forever. Definitely a fact.

He needed water, food, more bullets in his gun – he only had four left – shelter, sleep. Fact, fact, fact, fact.

He couldn’t sleep in his tree, because he might fall and injure himself. He couldn’t sleep on the floor because Walkers could come any second, or the Governors people. He couldn’t sleep safely at all, actually.

He could find food, if he left his hiding spot. He had a knife, he knew (in theory, anyway) how to make a snare. He could find water, if he was lucky.

 _Luck is a rare currency these days._ He had heard Hershel say that a while ago.

Hershel.

Dammit, that hurt. He felt his throat tighten, a sob trying to press its way up to the air. He forced it back down.

No time for this now. Back in the game.

The tunnel was narrow, and cold as ever. The rider, now on foot and leading the horse on the reins, was shivering under his soaked overalls, fingers feeling stiff and feet numb.

“ _Vois sur ton chemin, gamins oubliés égarés, donne leur la main“,_ he sang in the dark of his tunnel. The melody was off, flat, and he knew that he mispronounced every single word of the foreign language, but the song gave him comfort. Even if he didn’t know _what_ he was singing.

“ _Pour les mener, vers d'autres lendemains, donne leur la main_.” 

The voice carried down the tunnel, an echo bouncing back from the concrete walls.

 _“_ _Pour les mener, vers d'autres lendemains_. _“_

The hooves of the horse did their _clip-clap-clip-clap_ on the floor, the reins were clinking and the breathing coming in gentle huffs.

 _“Sens au coeur de la nuit_ …” 

He did not sleep that night. He was sitting in his tree, still shaking a bit, trying to keep it together.

He had to.

He knew that, if he let himself break down, he wouldn’t be able to get up again.

And so he grinded his teeth and bit through his lip, held onto the branches with a tight grip – with two exceptions, to relief himself – and pinched himself in the cheeks to stay awake.

The morning came agonizingly slowly. His body ached and had gone all stiff from his night in the tree. His stomach was churning. His mouth was all dry.

Water, first.

Then, food.  
How long could he even last without food – or water?

Or sleep.

Sometime overnight, it had become easier to keep his eyes open, but his eyelids felt like lead, and his movements were sluggish. He was no use without sleep. Not on the long run. He already knew this. He already had spent nights without sleep. He could do it again if he had to.

Food – the longest he had gone without it had been maybe three, four days? But he was sure that he could go longer without if he had to.

He _would_ if he had to.

Water – he hadn’t gone completely without water for longer than maybe one day before. There had been at least a few sips in between for him.

Water, clearly, would be the most pressing issue.

So onward. One foot in front of the other.

Walk.

Just… walk.

Find a safe spot.

Find something safe.

Then find Dad.

Find _somebody._

The room underground was small, no windows, walls, ceiling and floor made from concrete, brownish and old. One of the walls was covered in small lines, scratched into it with something sharp, in bundles of four, the fifth line crossing the four out, from whoever had lived here before.

He had never met them.

He didn’t worry about meeting them.

There was a simple field bed and a metallic chest that he stored his few belongings in. Light came from a naked bulb dangling from the ceiling, electricity coming from a small solar panel hidden topside. It had taken him a while to figure that whole thing out.

The floor was covered in matted straw. A bucket sat on top off the metallic chest. A water tank was shoved in a corner. A small frameless mirror was glued to the wall.

He lead the horse inside and, once he had locked the door again, started rubbing off the water and sweat and guts from her fur with an old towel.

She whinnied, nudging him in the side.

“Stop that”, he told her and continued his work.

After he considered his work done well enough, he filled the bucket with water and sat it down in front of her, and gave her an apple from the chest. He had found the tree nearby. A lucky find. _Luck is a rare currency these days._

Not for the first time did he wonder what would have been if things had gone differently. If he hadn’t hidden in the tree, hadn’t run off, hadn’t gone to… that place…

It was no use. A _What If_ didn’t matter.

It hadn’t mattered for a long time.

He took a look at himself in the small mirror, grimly staring his reflection in the eye.

Eyes were bloodshot from too little sleep, dark shadows now permanently at home under them. He had a scratch on his cheek where a branch had gotten him. His face was covered in blood and dirt where it hadn’t been covered by the goggles and the scarf. He sighed, wet a corner of the towel and started wiping the red splotches off.


	2. Of buried treasure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!  
> Another day, another chapter. Like the first, this one switches between a "then" and a "now", which I still think is reasonably understandably divided, but if you disagree or are just generally interested in the specifics, I can add notes the next chapter on where exactly in the timeline each of them are (I am working with the TV Show Timeline that's been posted on the fandom wiki which deals in days after the breakout). Either way, once the story reaches the point where the "then" narrative is over and I'll only keep writing in the "now" - so basically when the two strands catch up to each other, if that make sense - I will be posting the complete timeline of both story strands in the notes of that specific chapter.  
> There will be some French in this chapter, with a translation in the end notes.  
> I hope you'll enjoy this chapter - reviews and criticque are always appreciated!  
> Love, Lotta

His head was pounding. His mouth felt dry, like his tongue and lips were made of sanding paper. His eyelids were so heavy that he could barely keep them open for longer than a few seconds. He felt dizzy, his ears were ringing. Still, he kept walking.

Kept stumbling.

Further.

Just… a few steps… further…

He fell to his knees and this time, he couldn’t get himself to stand up again.

He would just rest… for… a few… just…

On the ceiling of the bunker was a drawing done in charcoal. It was big – whoever had lived here before him had probably been standing on the field bed – showing a landscape. A small house, trees, grass and flowers, a few animals, maybe goats, maybe cows, maybe sheep, in front of the house, eating the grass or drinking from the small river. Under the picture, in clumsy letters, stood three words: _Never forget home_.

These words made him sad and furious at the same time.

Furious, because whoever this person had been, what did they promise themselves of this drawing, this message? What good did it do them to remember their home? It probably didn’t exist anymore. The world in which this home had been didn’t exist anymore. Why were they so stupid to cling onto that? It wouldn’t help them!

Sad, because he understood. He missed his home, too. Both the house he had grown up in and the prison. He missed the old world. This drawing reminded him of how bad this new world, new reality, was, and it made him think of his Dad, and of Judith, and all the others, and sobs pushed their way up his throat until he was crying uncontrolledly, until the horse had gotten up and walked over to him, nudging him with her soft snout, as if she wanted to comfort him, or ask what was wrong.

_Never forget home._

He woke up with his head in somebodies lap and with a wet cloth on his forehead.

“Wha-“ His throat was still dry. He scrambled upwards, but before his eyes could focus, he felt something being pushed into his hands, a water bottle…

_Water!_

He drank greedily, until he almost choked. He coughed, leaning forwards, trying to catch his breath, and then there was a hand on his back, moving in a gentle circular motion.

“You’re okay”, an unfamiliar voice said.

He whirled his head around, and now his eyes could focus, and he saw a man. He looked a bit younger than his Dad, with tanned skin and thick sand-coloured hair. He had a few scratches on his cheek and forehead.

“You’re okay, we found you”, the man said, slowly removing his hand from Carl’s back, holding them both up so he could see them clearly. The gesture was obvious _: I don’t mean any harm._

“We found you a few metres from our camp”, the man said. “My name’s Jeremi Lefevre. Can you tell me your name?”

His speech melody was different from the one Carl was used to. He had a strange accent he couldn’t place anywhere. It confused him enough that it took him a moment to fully realize he’d been asked a question.

“Carl”, he said. “Carl Grimes.”  
“Are you alone, Carl?”, Jeremi asked.

Was that a trick? What should he say? Yes? No? The truth, half the truth, a lie?

“We won’t ‘arm you”, Jeremi said. “My wife and my son are looking for food, they’ll be back soon. Are you alone?”

“I… uh…”

“You were alone when we found you. You didn’t look good.” Jeremi handed him something – a granola bar of some sort – before he continued. “There was nobody around but we thought maybe there were others. Others that were also ‘urt. We ‘ave medicine, it’s not much, but we’ll give it to them if they need it.”

Carl thought about it. He looked around – there was a small fire, a tent with what looked like sleeping bags inside, sticks stabbed into the ground all around them, with yarn going all around, and empty cans tied to it every few inches.

“I’m alone. There were others, but… but I don’t know where they are. “  
He unwrapped the bar and took a small bite. He had learned the hard way that eating fast was stupid, and only resulted in him vomiting it back up again.

“How long…?”

“You were… uh, asleep… since yesterday, we think. We found you a few hours ago. Fed you water, some broth. You were, uh… dehydrated.”

He nodded. That made sense.

“What ‘appened to you, Carl? Your family?”

Before Carl could answer, something moved in the bushes, and a woman and a little boy emerged.

“Laurine!”, Jeremi called, jumping to his feet.

The woman was holding a bag and what looked like a small rabbit. The boy was holding a bundle of dried wood.

“ _Il est réveillé!_ ”, Jeremi said in a language that Carl was almost one hundred percent sure was French. “ _Son nom est Carl, m'a-t-il dit._ "

“ _Est-il seul?_ ”, the woman asked, warily.

" _Pour le moment, oui_." Jeremi stepped over the yarn-and-tincan-construction and lifted the boy to his hip. “ _Alors, Benni, avez-vous trouvé quelque chose?_ ”

“ _Maman a trouvé un panpan_ “, the little boy said excitedly.

His hair was getting long. It was annoying. It kept falling into his eyes and it tickled him in the neck. He had torn off a strip of fabric from his shirt, but it was only a semi-sufficient hair tie. Well, it was better than nothing. He could, of course, try to cut it with his knife, but he didn’t trust himself to not accidentally cut himself, so he let it grow. It wasn’t like appearance was an issue anymore. There was nobody around to impress – or scare – with his looks. The horse didn’t care.

Her hair, thick and curly and black, he braided, because it was too long and too beautiful to cut. He hadn’t known how to, before, but he had seen Beth do it back at the prison, and with a bit of trial and error he had managed a decent braid all along the curve of the long neck.

_Beth._

She had been so sweet, taking care of Judith, singing to her…

He wondered if she was still alive. Or Maggie, or Glenn. His Dad. Judith. Daryl.

Someone had to be.

He didn’t really know why he cared so much about how pretty the horse’s mane looked, but he did. Sometimes, he imagined finding his family again. He imagined little Judith getting excited about the horse (girls liked horses, right? Would Judith have liked horses?), gripping the long hair with her tiny hand…

He didn’t know why he left it long.

Jeremi spoke English pretty well, apart from his accent and the odd speech melody. Laurine, his wife, spoke a bit, but not much. It was enough that they could communicate, but not enough to actually carry a full conversation. Benni, the little boy, was only five and didn’t know any English. Well, apart from a few words – _food_ and _grass_ and _wabbit_ (rabbit) were the ones he used the most.

Carl told them what had happened, and Jeremi (at least Carl assumed that was what he said) translated it to his wife. In return, Jeremi told him their story. They were from a town called Dieppe in France, and they had come to the USA for vacation. When everything went to shit, they hadn’t been able to leave for home, and now they were stuck here. They did have some experience in camping, so they hadn’t found themselves entirely helpless, but it wasn’t like they had a great life here in the wilderness. They had two knives, and Laurine had a machete. They made do, just like everyone else did.

Benni seemed almost oblivious to the horrors that were part of their lives now. He played in the dirt of their little camp, digging up worms and snails and bugs that he named and talked to in rapid French babbling. He danced around his parents, quietly humming to himself. He tried to get Carl’s hat, and even though he’d never let anyone have it, he played along, placing it on the boys head for a few moments and smiled at the squealy giggle Benni produced when the hat fell over his eyes.

He was so… jaunty. It made tears swell up in Carl’s eyes.

What terrified him about seeing the boy play like life was still okay, was that one day, he would wake up. Would realize that he couldn’t play anymore, that there was death and pain and that he had be careful or else he’d be killed.

Fuck, this world was cruel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The French translations to the conversations in this chapter: 
> 
> "He’s awake! His name is Carl, he told me."  
> "Is he alone?"  
> "For the moment, yes. Well, Benni, have you found something?"  
> "Mommy found a Thumper!"  
> 


	3. These memories never sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween folks, to all those that celebrate!  
> I'm on a bit of a creative streak today (mostly because I'm waiting for the LoL Finals to be over so that my PNP group will be available for a new session) so I figured I'd finish and post chapter 3 today instead of sometime during the next week. I'll try to get Number 4 done by Friday or Saturday, but we'll see I guess. New classes, new schedule, all that stuff.  
> WARNING: This chapter will contain character deaths, they’re on-screen and, while not super-duper detailed, still written out fairly graphically, so proceed with caution.  
> There’ll be translations for the French at the end of the chapter. Also, apparently, it's the 10-year-TWD-anniversary today, so Happy TWD Day or something!  
> Love, Lotta

Laurine liked to sing. She had a nice voice, deep and soothing. She called them _chorales_ and _chansons_ , and Jeremi translated the rough meaning of some of them to Carl – _Paris en moins de Mai_ meant _Paris in the month of May_ and was about exactly what the title said; _La Nuit_ meant _The Night_ and was about dreams and hope, _Alouette_ was about a lark and it’s body parts, head and beak and wings and so on, and _Vois sur ton chemin_ was about childhood, being lost and receiving help. That one, Carl liked best. Laurine did, too, and she sang it often enough that Carl could memorize how each word sounded. Sometimes, he sang along under his breath, blushing furiously every time his voice cracked.

There was another song, one that Benni sang a lot. It was a kindergarten song, Jeremi explained, one to teach you the days of the week. Every verse was the same. The king, queen and little prince visited the singer’s house but always found it empty, and the prince said that they’d come back the next day. And every verse, you used the next weekday. Monday way _lundi_ , Tuesday was _mardi_ , Wednesday was _mercredi_ , Thursday was _jeudi_ , Friday was _vendredi_ , Saturday was _samedi_. When the song had arrived at the last verse – Sunday, _dimanche_ – the text changed a bit. Instead of “We’ll come back the next day”, the little prince said “We’ll never come back”. Benni loved that last bit, and laughed out loud when he and his mother sang it together.

It was Jeremi’s turn to hunt for food. He’d been gone for almost three days. Carl was worried. He knew that Laurine was, too, even without really talking to her. Benni didn’t notice something was potentially wrong.

“ _Maman, chante!_ ”, Benni demanded.

Laurine sighed. “ _Pas maintenant, chérie_.”

“ _Je veux chanter!_ ”

“ _Pas maintenant, ai-je dit!_ ”

Carl looked from Laurine to Benni, then back again. “What does he want?”, he asked.

“ _Je veux la chanson du chemin!_ ”, Benni screamed, loud enough to make Carl cringe and look around, afraid that the loud shrill voice might attract Walkers. They had been lucky, with this new spot that they’d found, no Walkers so far, but he preferred it to stay that way, too.

“’e wants to… to sing”, Laurine explained and ran a hand over her face. “ _Benni, arrête! Tu devrais être tranquille!_ ”

Carl made a decision. He grabbed Benni, pulled him onto his lab and started singing in his ear: “ _Vois sur ton chemin, gamins oubliés égarés, donne leur la main_ …”

There was something moving in the bushes. Carl jumped to his feet, knife at the ready – he had run out of bullets a few days ago – and Laurine was standing too, holding Benni behind her. Then, the branches parted, and a familiar shape stepped out. Before Carl could even react, Laurine and Benni were running, and Laurine fell into her husbands arms… and only then did Carl realize that something was very, very wrong.

Too late.

Laurine screamed as the teeth sank into her shoulder, and Benni started crying. Jeremi, the Walker that had once been Jeremi, let go of his wife, and before Carl could even register the danger – he was frozen, frozen on the spot in terror, fuck, why of all moments did it have to be this moment?! – the Walker had grabbed onto Benni and had started feasting on his arm.

Finally, Carl snapped out of it. He ran forward, ramming the knife into Jeremi’s skull and shoving him backwards, so that he let go of Benni.

The boy was screaming murder now, his little arm, what was left of it, a mess of blood and flesh. Laurine was holding him in her arms, trying to stop the bleeding, to somehow safe the arm, safe her child, while bleeding heavily out of her shoulder, onto the white shirts and her jeans.

It had been a good few days with the French family.

They had been nice.

He’d been with them for six days, total, since he woke up.

That was three or maybe four days after the Governor had attacked them at the prison.

Nine or ten days since then, total.

How, if anyone, was still alive?

Benni wasn’t wailing anymore. He was just whimpering, getting weaker, drifting in and out of consciousness. They had wrapped his arm tightly, but Carl knew it wouldn’t help.

“I’m sorry”, he told Laurine for what felt like the millionth time. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

“Not… your fault.”

Laurine was burning up with a fever, her face all pale, blood slowly seeping through the badly done bandages at her shoulder. She was soaked in sweat, and shivering like crazy. The wet cloth on her forehead didn’t help at all.

“I didn’t see it, I couldn’t move, I’m sorry”, he went on, tears burning in his eyes. He blinked them away, furious with himself and the world and just… sort of… everything.

“Not. Your. Fault.”

Laurine took a deep breath.

“Carl, _ecoute_ … listen.”

She struggled to sit up, pushing her torso up onto her elbows. “J'ai une faveur à demander… You ‘ave to do a thing. Okay?”

Carl nodded. “What?”

Laurine seemed to search the right words. “Kill us”, she said, finally.

“What?” He hadn’t expected this. “I… no, Laurine, no, I…”

“ _Tu dois nous tuer!_ ”, Laurine yelled, her eyes sparking with sudden anger, and her voice shrill with hysteria. “ _J’ne peux pas! Tu dois, Carl! Ne nous laisse pas mourir comme ça, ne nous laisse pas devenir des monstres!_ ”

Carl only understood one word – _monsters_. He didn’t need to know the words to understand the rest.

“I can’t”, he whispered, and now he was crying for sure. “Laurine…”  
“You can!”, the woman said. “Please… please…”

He could do it, a voice at the back of his mind reminded him. He had done it before. He could do it.

His mother’s last words echoes back in his mind. _I don't want you to be scared, okay? This is what I want. This is right. – You are gonna beat this world! – You always gotta do what's right! Promise me!_

“It will be okay”, Laurine assured him with a gentle smile that was entirely wrong in this situation. “We will be with Jeremi. Please…”

Carl bent his head, a sob shaking him to the core; then, he swallowed, and grabbed the knife. “I’m sorry”, he whispered again, and then over and over until the words bled into each other seamlessly.

“It’s okay”, Laurine whispered back, crying as well, but there was no fear in her eyes despite the tip of a knife resting on her forehead. “Do it. _Je te pardonne._ ”

Carl let out a small, helpless cry and drove the knife down with all his power.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry”, he whispered, and tears blinded him. They burned, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe, the air seemed stuck in his throat. Then, a small whine from Benni brought him back.

Benni was on his back in the tent, barely even alive anymore. He was so small, for a five-year-old, and he reminded Carl of Judith and fuck, that hurt, that made it all so much worse!

He carefully picked the boy up and carried him out of the tent and out into the air. He wanted Benni to see the sky.

“I’m so sorry, Benni”, he whispered. His hands were shaking, breathing hurt.

The little boy opened his eyes and looked up at him. He barely seemed to recognize him, and Carl felt sick for being glad. Benni was already too far gone to realize what was going on. That didn’t make it easier though.

His eyes, glazed over and unfocussed, reminded him of Judith.

Judith… little sweet Judy…

His chest hurt, his lungs burned, and he could barely hold the little boy anymore.

What if this was Judith?

This could have been Judith…

He pulled the boy on his lap, cradling his head against his shoulder, hoping that it felt safe and warm and not like… not like… not…

“I’m so sorry, Benni, I am so sorry”, he whispered. “You’ll be okay, I promise, you’ll be okay… You’ll be with you Mommy soon, and your Daddy, yeah? You’ll be okay…”

He felt the breathing against his chest lessen, and the small body in his arms got limb. Benni was barely even alive anymore.

Carl layed him down on the ground, and lifted the knife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of the French in this Chapter: 
> 
> “Mommy, sing!”  
> “Not now, darling.”  
> “I wanna sing!”  
> “Not now, I said!”  
> “I want the way-song!”  
> “Benni, stop it! You have to be quiet!”
> 
> “You have to kill us! I can’t do it! You have to, Carl! Don’t let us die like that, don’t let us become monsters!”
> 
> “I forgive you.”


	4. The geese are flying south

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody!  
> I hope you made it through the week okay so far, especially if you're living in the USA. It's scary to observe even from here, so I can't even begin to imagine how it is for someone who actually lives there.   
> I had planned to make this chapter a bit longer, but that didn't really work out since I am in uni and like usual, the first week was stressful, with classes not lining up and all that fun stuff... eurgh.   
> Anyhow, enjoy this new chapter!   
> Love, be safe, Lotta

One foot before the other.

One step before the next.

Keep walking.

The air was cold, and smelled damp, and a bit mouldy. Maybe mushrooms, maybe just plain mould. Maybe some animal carcass rotting in the bushes.

One step before the next.

He hadn’t buried Laurine and Benni. He hadn’t buried Jeremi. He didn’t have anything to dig a hole with. He didn’t have the time, or the will or the strength.

Keep walking.

There was blood on his hands, died blood, on his fingers, under his nails, splattered on his face. It itched. He didn’t stop to wash it off.

Keep walking.

He had raided their camp, taking with him what he thought he might need. A backpack with the remaining food – a Tupperware box full of berries and edible plants, two bottles of water – a blanket, a flashlight with a dynamo powerhouse, the knives, Laurine’s machete. String and leather straps as equipment for snares.

It wasn’t much.

It was something.

He had wrapped their bodies in their sleeping bags, and put them in their tent. He knew it wouldn’t matter. Something would find them, and soon, there’d just be bones and torn fabric left.

He hadn’t been able to do anything more.

Keep walking.

Don’t think about little Benni and his happy, careless laughing, his childish joy at his mother catching a rabbit. Don’t think about Judith, and how easily this could have been here. Maybe was her. Maybe she was dead, too.

It was kinder this way, probably, in a cruel, horrible way. Benni had always been so happy and joyful, so carefree. He hadn’t known of the danger around him, yet, hadn’t realized it, and now he never would. He would never have to kill a Walker, or a person. He’d never even learn the word _Walker_. He was somewhere else now, maybe. Hopefully a better place. Hopefully with is parents.

Laurine’s song was ringing in his ears and taunted him in his mind. _Vois sur ton chemin, gamins oubliés égarés, donne leur la main pour les mener, vers d'autres lendemains._

“It’s a choir song”, Jeremi had explained. “There was a film, a few years ago. A man comes to a school and becomes a teacher, and all the student are… very rude… boys. So ‘e makes them join the choir. Laurine loves that film.”

“Does it have a nice ending?”, Carl had asked. He didn’t know why.

“Yes and no.” Jeremi had shrugged. “The school burns, the teacher is fired and the choir is ended.”

“Where’s the yes?”

“One of the little boys, Pépinot, goes with the teacher. Pépinot doesn’t ‘ave parents. And then he does again.”

Yes and no.

_See on your way, lost forgotten kids, give them a hand to lead them towards other tomorrows._

There was no _Yes_ in reality anymore. No nice endings. No _Yes_.

He ate worms and bugs, berries and leaves. He filtered water from a creek though rocks in his one bottle to sort of purify it – he had learned that in second grade. It had been a fun experiment then. Now, it was a life saver.

He caught a squirrel once. It didn’t have a lot of meat on it. But it was something.

The next day, he caught a hedgehog. It had even less meat on its bones. But it was something.

If he had a non-melee-weapon he could have caught a deer, maybe, if he was lucky. If he’d known how to use (or make) a bow and arrow, he could have. But he didn’t, he hadn’t.

Keep walking.

He found an old house and three Walkers. They had once been a family, he guessed – a girl his age with a matted ponytail, a man and a woman. He stabbed them in the head without a flinch.

Raiding their house resulted in a bag full of almost nothing. The water was running, at least, and he filled up his bottles and two more that he found in the house that weren’t entirely covered with mould. In one of the rooms, he had found a set of hiking boots that were his size, as well as jeans and shirts and a jacket that fit him okay-ish (only a tiny bit too big). He didn’t find anything edible though, apart from a glass jar of dried coffee beans. He grabbed a canvas bag from a shelf, dusted it off and filled the beans in. He was about sixty percent sure that it was safe to eat coffee beans.

Next to the house was a stable with a wildered pasture out front. A horse stood in the middle, and it whinnied almost happily when it saw him. It can to the fence, smelling at his backpack and nudging him with its warm snout.

“Hello, you”, Carl whispered, and cringed at how coarse his voice sounded.

The horse snorted and nudged him again.

It was beautiful, tall and with black fur and a long mane and tail. It had dark amber eyes and a small scar on the soft snout. It didn’t look underfed, quite the contrary, it looked strong and healthy, apart from the slightly matted hair.

“Hello”, Carl said again, and offered the horse his hand to smell. That’s how you did ot with dogs, so it had to be working with horses too, right?

The horse sniffed, then licked his hand. Then, it nudged him again.

“Stop that”, he told it disgruntledly.

The horse didn’t listen and nudged him once more.

“You’re alone here, huh?”

A loud huff and, funnily enough, an enthusiastic nod with its head. 

He sighed and climbed over the fence.

The grass on the pasture was high, and there was a river going through it. There were bags of grained food in the stable, one knocked over and torn open, and a whole lot of straw and hay.

Apparently, the horse had been doing well on its own. There had been enough food for it for sure.

There was a colourful sign nailed to the box that lead out onto the pasture. It had a bright yellow background, with pink flowers and a name in bright blue: Morticia.

Like Morticia Addams.

Didn’t fit at all with the bright, colourful sign.

He found a saddle and reigns, as well as a horse blanket, a bucket and a collection of brushes. Figuring that it probably hurt to put on the saddle on a dirt-matted back, he brushed the horse’s fur thoroughly. It – she – stood very still and almost seemed to enjoy it, even though he had no real clue what he was doing. Once he decided that Morticia was clean enough, he brought out the blanket, the saddle and reigns. Morticia stood still and opened her mouth willingly as he approached with the mouth piece. In his mind, he thanked fate that Maggie and Beth had shown them how to saddle up horses and how to ride them. Back at the Greene Farm.

It seemed like hundreds of years ago.

He tied a ball of straw onto the back – just in case, he told himself – and hung the bucket on a bit of string from the saddle, then he sat up and clicked his tongue. Morticia’s ears perked up. He gently pressed his legs against her sides, and she started walking.

One step in front of the other.

Morticia’s hooves made a thunder-like thumping sound when she was running, and it took him a while until he could go in synch with her movements instead of just flopping down on her back every few seconds, but he got there.

He had been riding for a few days. At night, they stopped. They also stopped in between, so that Morticia could GRASEN and drink water from either the creeks around or her bucket, that Carl made sure to always fill up before they went on. He knew this probably wasn’t always enough – Maggie had said once that horses needed a crazy amount of water – but she seemed okay, and healthy, and so they went on.

Day after day.

Following the signs. Following the train tracks.

He kept Morticia next to the tracks so that she wouldn’t hurt herself on the hard wood and rocks and metal, but they followed them still.

_Terminus – Sanctuary for all – follow the train tracks. Community for all. Those who arrive survive._

Somehow, in his guts, he felt that this was where his family had gone.

Might have gone.

Hopefully had gone.

He clicked his tongue and Morticia trotted on.

There was nothing but ruins, and smoke, and a swarm of creeping corpses.

The air smelled sickly sweet, and also of burning flesh and hair.

It made him sick.

Violently.

In the bushes at the side of the path.

Morticia, to her credit, did not run, but she was prancing around nervously, flicking her ears and huffing every few second.

Tears burned in his eyes, together with the smoke.

There was nothing left. Nobody alive.

Just death and flames.

He bent over and retched again.

Morticia stomped her hoof.

He wiped his mouth, forced another sob down.

No time for this, now. Back in the game.

They couldn’t stay here.

He took a sip of water, rinsed his mouth.

Got back in the saddle.

Back in the game.

As they left the ruins of Terminus behind them, they passed by another one of those stupid fucking signs.

No.

This one was different.

Someone had scribbled a big, fat _NO_ on top of the sign, with something red, maybe clay, maybe blood, and crossed out all other words except _sanctuary_.

Beneath it, a few new words, written in black. _Carl, come find us. We’re going to Washington_.


	5. It sets me thinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello people!   
> So, the election's done. What a kriffing relief, right? I literally cried, I kid you not. I cried.   
> Anyways, I couldn't sleep so instead I wrote up the next chapter. It's not super long (quite the opposite, actually - sorry), but yeah. Like I said, I couldn't sleep. So there. I hope you like it. Also, can I just say that you people are the absolute best? You're been so sweet, I appreciate it tons!  
> So, this chapter is the last one that will change between a “Then” and a “Now” narrative, however, just not to spoil anything that’s about to come, I think I’ll wait on a little bit until I post the complete timeline  
> Also, fun fact: Morticia the horse is based on a horse I worked with, a Friesian called Fester (yes, that is the sole reason I named her Morticia in the story) who was very headstrong and had a great personality.   
> So yeah. Love you all, enjoy, g'night!  
> Lotta

_Carl, come find us._

The thundering of the hooves sounded like roaring applause in his ears.

_We’re going to Washington._

They were alive. Someone was still alive.

_Come find us._

His Dad could still be alive. Daryl, Michonne, Maggie, Glenn, Beth, Carol.

_We’re going to Washington._

Judith.

_Come find us._

All he heard was the thumping of the hooves and his own breathing and the beating of his heart.

_Come find us._

Maybe they had all made it out! Maybe they had all lived!

_We’re going to Washington._

He brought Morticia to a sudden stop. Why DC? Why, why the hell DC? What was in DC?

Why would they go to Washington?

What was in Washington?

Maybe it was a trap.

Then again, why would anyone leave a message like that to lure in one singular kid?

If it hadn’t been someone from his group, then how had they known what name to write? Or maybe this was directed at another Carl?

What were the chances of that?

What were the chances that someone had forced his family to reveal his name just to write it on the sign for a trap?

What if it wasn’t a trap?

What if it was?

He didn’t have anything else to do.

Didn’t have anywhere else to go.

Might as well try to go to Washington.

Might as well try.

The tree was crooked and awry, bowing over a small creek, branches hanging full with red round fruit.

He let Morticia drink and sat off, brushing off his pants and walking towards the tree.

The apples looked and smelled delicious. A few of them looked like they had worms in them, and there were a few that had fallen off, lying in the grass, brown and squishy.

He reached up.

The fruit was firm and tasted a little bit sour, but it was better, much better, than beetles and worms. He picked another one for Morticia.

She nudged his side and he decided to interpret this as _thank you_.

It was raining. Wonderful.

They had taken cover under a big tree. His hat prevented the water to rob him the sight, but he didn’t trust Morticia to go on in the rain. He wasn’t sure how well horses could see.

It was cold, too. He had draped the big blanket he had taken from the stable over Morticia’s backside and his own legs and the saddle, so that it would keep them at least a little bit dry. It didn’t help much at all.

Once again, he thought about the prison. About the camp right outside Atlanta. About the farm. About his family.

He hoped that, wherever they were, the rain wasn’t as bad, or that they had found shelter of some sorts.

Hoped once again that the message on the sign had been for him, and true.

The sun broke through the clouds. The rain subsided.

They rode on.

He found a church.

What remained of it, actually.

What likely had once been a pretty, white and pristine-looking building was now surrounded by bloody spears, the walls were full of scratched-in warnings and bloody handprints.

There was a grave outside, fresh, with a crudely made wooden cross. It had the name _Bob_ carved into it.

He knew that name.

Shit.

His family had been here.

A grave meant that someone had been alive to bury the dead. To bury Bob.

There were dead Walkers and some dead people laying of a pile.

The floor of the church was stained in blood.

They had been here.

There had been a fight.

There was only one grave.

“Let’s hope for the best”, he mumbled and sat back up.

Let’s hope that the others are okay, that they won the fight.

He had looked through the pile of bodies, using one of the spears to move them. All of them had knife marks in their faces. None of them was familiar.

That was a good thing.

Let’s hope for the best.

It was late in the evening, but not dark yet, when he found it. The apple tree.

It bowed over a small creek, and was full of fruit.

He ate until he was full, and let Morticia eat the grass and apples, and drink from the creek. He filtered the water through the pebbles in the one bottle he had with him.

There was something etched into the trunk of the apple tree, partially covered in moss. When he peeled it off and gently blew on the wood to get all the rough dirt away, six words were revealed: _Six steps forwards, eight left, safety_.

Huh, well, that was odd.

He tied Morticia to the tree and made six wide steps. Then eight to the left, across the creek. When he stomped down with one foot experimentally, it sounded hallow.

He knelt down and pushed the layers of dried leaves, dirt, rocks and moss away. Beneath it all, he found a door. A big door. In the ground.

He knocked against it with the handle of his machete, then listened.

No snarling. No screaming. Nothing.

He grabbed the ring in the middle and pulled on it with all his strength.

He hadn’t expected for it to open as easily as it did. He stumbled backwards, falling to his backside, right into the creek.

“Fuck.”

Morticia whinnied in a way that sounded like she was laughing at him.

“Shut up”, he told her and got back up. Carefully, he walked closer to the door again. IT was wide, 2 metres by 2 or something, and a concrete path lead down, not very steep, but far. It reminded him of an underground garage, somehow.

The way it was built, a six foot person probably could go down without hitting their head.

As it turned out, so could his horse, as long as she kept her head down.

The tunnel got lower, deeper under the surface. It was made from concrete, and supported by a metal skeleton of poles and racks.

There was no light, apart from the bit that fell in through the door.

He heard nothing other than his own breathing and Morticia.

Carl pulled out the flashlight and lit it.

The tunnel lead on under the ground, on and on, entirely empty. It had a high ceiling, and a door at the far end.

It was a blind alley.

Perfect spot for a trap.

Unlikely, the way the door had been hidden, he decided. He stopped, making sure that Morticia stayed where she was, and moved forward with the machete in hand. Carefuly, he tried the door.

It wasn’t locked.

He opened it, and it swung open to reveal, in the pale shine of the flashlight, a small room. No person inside. No Walkers, either.

A fieldbed, a metal chest, a watertank.

A safe spot, maybe.

He went back, closed the door and used the latch on the inside to lock it, and then led Morticia into the room.

A safe spot, for now.

Morticia was tugging at his pant leg.

“Mornin’”, he greeted her, groggily, and sat up. It was dark, but by now he found his way around the small room easily. He got up, walked over to the door, flipped on the lightswitch. The naked bulb on the ceiling lit up.

He had found the solar panel topside the day after he had found the bunker. It had been hidden in the apple tree, with cables leading underground.

Whoever had had this build had probably been one of those paranoid idiots who had enough money to have someone construct them a safety bunker, he had figured. There was a generator in the ceiling, he had found it after inspecting the charcoal drawing more closely – it had been painted over the lid that covered the access point for all the cables. He didn’t really know how it worked, but it did, and that was enough.

He had found out how to refill the water tank. He had found a waterproof hiking backpack, a couple metallic water bottles, batteries, a book on edible plants, mushrooms and so on, an olive-coloured overall out of a weird water-resistant vinyl-like material and some goggles in the metallic box. The overall he wore whenever he went out – by now, it was caked and covered in dried blood, dirt and Walker guts. Disgusting, but much better than having it on his own clothing.

He took out the Tupperware box he had taken from Laurine’s things and that he now stored things in that lasted a bit longer. He munched on some berries and the rest of some rabbit he had caught the day before, and once he had eaten and drunk, he filled up the bucket and put it in front of Morticia. She could eat once they were topside again. That’s how they always did it – she didn’t eat the straw he had taken from her stable, and so it served as a mattress of sorts on the cold concrete ground, covered by the big blanket.

“We’re leaving today”, he told her. “Taking a little roadtrip, what do you think?”  
Morticia huffed.

“We’ll come back if we don’t find anyone”, he assured her – and himself – and started packing his belongings into the hiking backpack.


	6. There in the western sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello people!  
> Was I bored yesterday? Why yes, I was - so here's another chapter. This one acts sort of as a half-way-filler between the "Carl alone" type of story line and the next one, which I'm very excited to get to. Yeah... I hope you like it! As always, I'd love to hear from you, your opinions and thoughts, that sort of stuff.  
> Love, Lotta

The air was cold, and Carl was thankful for the extra layer the vinyl overall gave him.

It was a grey morning, a bit of fog wafting over the ground.

He closed the door and covered it in leaves and rocks and moss until it was impossible to see. He also smeared dirt onto the writing on the tree.

Just in case.

Then, he sat up and they were on their way.

Way to wherever.

Way home if he was lucky.

Home… whatever that was nowadays. His family was his home, right?

Way to wherever.

“Let’s go, girl”, he said, and clicked is tongue.

Morticia whinnied. She seemed excited.

For a while, they rode in silence. Listing for Walkers, or people.

“ _Vois sur ton chemin_ ”, Carl finally sang, trying his best to pronounce every word the way he had heard Laurine do it. He probably said something entirely different but who cares, right? Morticia probably didn’t know any French anyhow. Did horses even understand humans ? Eh, probably not. “ _Gamins oubliés égarés, donne leur la main pour les mener vers d'autres lendemains. Sens au coeur de la nuit, l'onde d'espoir ardeur de la vie, sentier de gloire, ardeur de la vie_ …”

It was odd, really. How that one stupid song has stuck with him so much. How it had become his… his thing. Something comforting.

Hell, he didn’t even remember the songs his mother had sung to him as a kid. He barely remembered any of the songs he has listened to before shit hit the fan. But this song… somehow he knew that it would sort of stick with him forever.

However long _forever_ would be.

The morning went by without any occurrences, unless you counted a few birds and a fox as occurrences.

Sometimes, they had days like that.

Sometimes – like yesterday – there was a small horde.

When they had found their way to a highway, around midday, he and Morticia encountered a singular Walker – it was almost entirely decayed, skin hanging in scraps and all the teeth visible through tears in the cheeks – and then everything was calm again.

They ate lunch on a patch of grass by the side of the road – an apple and some water each – and took a little bit of a break. Then, if was time to head on. Carl popped two coffee beans into his mouth and chewed on them as he steered Morticia back onto the road. Everything was dead silent, and her hooves made their typical _clap-clip-clap_ noises that echoed back incredibly loud, even though she didn’t even have any horseshoes.

About an hour later, they found two more Walkers next to the remainders of their broken down car and a big road sign.

“Seems like we’re on the right path”, Carl told Morticia and slammed down his machete into the second Walker’s skull. The horse snorted in agreement.

“Okay, then off we go to Washington! Heya, girl!”

He clicked his tongue and Morticia fell into a comfortable trot. The _clap-clip-clap_ got louder and faster but like through a miracle, the noise didn’t attract any Walkers… or people.

The thing about being on the road, alone, was that he didn’t have to pay as much attention as he had to in the forest. The path was literally paved… well, concreted… out in front of him, and was in a good shape, and with the silence, without the sounds of animals and the wind in the treetops, he could hear Walkers from a mile away. And he didn’t actually have to steer Morticia either, she was good at walking straight ahead, on and on, and as long as they were going in a fast-ish pace, she didn’t get tempted by the grass at the roadside either. So, he let himself daydream a bit. No, that wasn’t the right word.

He let himself think.

He let himself remember.

He let his mind wander back to when everything had gone bad. That must’ve been more than a year ago, maybe two. He recalled someone say “it’s been 500 days today” when they’d been at the prison. Maybe it had been his Dad, maybe Hershel, but he didn’t remember. How many days had it been since the Governor had attacked the prison?

He had been running for three or four days. He’d been with Laurine and Jeremi for about a week, after. Then… he wasn’t sure. Maybe it had been ten days, maybe two weeks or so. Something like that.

For some reason, time wasn’t the same thing anymore. Not the same as it had been before the outbreak. Before, his life, time, had been divided by events – Easter and summer holidays and Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Years – and there had been a big family calendar hanging in the kitchen where his Mom had written down all their appointments and when they were visiting people and all that stuff. Now, there were no more calendars. No more months to be measured.

How long had it been?

He didn’t even know how old he was anymore. He had been almost thirteen when it all had started – only a few days until his birthday. He remembered asking his Mom if Dad would be back home by then.

His Mom’s pregnancy had given him a bit more sense of time for a while, bitter as it was – he had known that babies grew in their mother’s bellies around nine or ten months before they were born, and they had stayed a long while at the prison.

_It’s been 500 days today._

He’d never been great at math, but if he had to estimate, he’d say it had been around one and a half years, give or take.

That would make him somewhere between fourteen and fifteen, then.

Not that it mattered anymore. Nobody celebrated birthdays anymore.

If he was halfway correct with his calculations, then Judith had to be about five months old now. Had she started to eat normal food yet, or was five months too early for a baby? Had she started babbling yet, maybe even talking? If she was anything like him, then yes, probably. His Dad had told him about a million times that his first word had been around his fifth month. _Cucumber_. Of all words, his first one had been cucumber. His Dad could always laugh about that.

Dad…

They made camp on the side of the road. Morticia folded her legs under her stomach, but her neck and head were still upright as she dozed. She rarely slept, Carl had learned, and if she did, she had to flop to her side completely. It almost looked like she was dead.

He was chewing on some leftover mushrooms when he heard it.

Motorbikes. Two, maybe three.

He jumped to his feet, machete at the ready. Morticia got up, too, her ears pressed flat back, stomping one hoof and whipping her tail around nervously.

“Calm, girl”, he whispered.

The headlights blinded him.

Then everything went by in a flash.

Something was stuck in his side, and as he gasped for air, suddenly everything exploded into hot, searing pain. Everything went red.

He could hear Morticia yelp and whinny loudly, and shouts of pain that seemed far, far away. Thundering metallic noises. The sound of hooves on concrete.

Everything went black.

He was dreaming.

He was dreaming he was back at the prison.

It was sunny, and warm. The vegetables were getting ripe. He was kneeling in the soil, harvesting red-and-white radishes. His Dad was two rows over, looking at the tomatoes.

He could hear Beth, somewhere, singing a song for Judith, and he heard the happy gurgling noises the baby made.

The pigs were grunting in their pen, and the gate was opened noisefully for someone on horseback. He looked up – and there was Michonne, on a redbrown horse. It was Michonne, and it wasn’t – her skin was grey, and she had no lower jaw. Her own katana was stuck in her shoulder, dripping with blood.

He scrambled to his feet, looked around for a weapon, his eyes met his Dad’s but he, too, was grey-skinned and rotten now, snarling and snapping at him and suddenly he was falling, falling, falling down a dark shaft somewhere…

He heard a horse whinny, heard a motorbike go by in full speed, heard some crows croak and squeak…

He woke up.

“Hey, welcome back amongst the living!”

Voice… Strange voice… stranger… Everything was blurry. He couldn’t move. Over him, he could see the vague shape of a face. Brown skin, short hair, maybe a beard shadow, maybe just normal shadows…

“I dunno … looks pretty out of it, Vi…”

“Yeah, no shit, dumbass! … missing an eye!”

More voices… loud… more strangers…

Fuck, his head hurt. His _face_ hurt.

“…seriously … waste … on him? He’s a goner, let’s … put him out of … misery!”  
“…not a fucking dog!”  
“I’m just saying…”

“It’s fine! We… gods, Matt!”

Loud… loud… loud…

Red, black. Burning pain.

Air, air, breathe…

“Both of you, shut up!”

A bottle was pressed against his lips, and he drank.

He blinked.

The face of the man above him was less blurry, now.

Something wasn’t right, though…

“Easy there, don’t sit up yet”, the man said. “You’ve taken quite the beating. Whatever you did to anger those guys, I hope it was worth it!”

Worth… what guys… what…

Everything fell black again.

His dreams were filled with yellow flowers and blue skies, and the smell of rotting bodies.

Screaming, snarling.

Blood on his hands.

Blood on the flowers.

Screams.

Snapping-noises.

Smoke.

A gunshot. A bleeding hole between his mother’s eyes.

A baby, crying.

Blood, screams, blood…

“Hello back again!”

This time, things weren’t quite as blurry. He didn’t hurt as much.

“Don’t move, okay? I’ll sit you up, wait.”

The man he had seen before leaned forward and carefully pulled him up until he was sitting, leaned against something… a tree.

His vision… something was wrong with it. Like a huge blind spot to his right… He could see the side of his nose, a bit, but nothing further to the right… Wrong _, wrong…_

“Hey, hey, it’s okay!”, the man said, picking up on his panic. “Here, drink!”

He handed him a bottle, and Carl drank.

“Okay, calm now”, the man said once he was finished, and carefully took the bottle from his grasp.

“You must be pretty confused”, he said. “My name’s Damien. I’m with two friends, they should be back soon. They’ve been out for about two days – you were mostly unconscious. Woke up once, right when we found you, don’t know if you remember that.”

He nodded, slowly. His head hurt, but it wasn’t too bad.

“You must be hungry.”

He thought for a moment. “No… not really.”

“Okay.” Damien nodded. “Any nausea?”

“N-no.”

“That’s good.”

“What happened?”, he asked.

Damien stopped what he was doing to look back at him. “You don’t remember?”

“I remember…”

Motorbikes. Headlights. Thundering noises. Hooves on concrete. _Pain_.

“We found you next to two men. They were almost dead. We think your horse got them with its hooves.”

Morticia! He looked around, searching, and finding his horse tied to a tree nearby, munching around on something.

“She’s okay, we fed her and gave her water. Just a bit shocked, probably”, Damien assured him. “We ended the men – just in case. Took their bikes, too. Nice ones.”  
Carl just nodded, trying to comprehend the intel, trying to put together the puzzle pieces.

“Viola thinks they wanted your stuff – they got you in the side and your eye.”

His side… his eye…

His hands wandered down, and when he looked, he found that his overall had been zipped open, and the shirt underneath was stained. There was a big tear in the side of the torso, not stitched up. Big, dried rust-coloured stains. Underneath, he could feel a thick bandage.

“That one wasn’t so bad. We cleaned and cauterized it”, Damien told him, and handed him a thermos-cup with steaming green liquid in it. “No organs were damaged. You were lucky.”

Carl nodded, shakily.

“You eye, though…”  
His eye. His face. _Pain_.

The hand that wasn’t holding the cup went up to his face. His fingertips met a thick bandage, wrapped around his head, getting thicker over his eye.

“What… I…”  
“Those bastards stabbed you in the eye”, Damien explained. “You are lucky to still be alive, d’you know that?”

“My… I…”  
“It’s okay, calm down, we did our best. You’ll be okay. You’ll live. Drink the broth.”

He couldn’t. He was shaking all over.

_My eye… my eye…_

Later that evening, the other two returned to the small camp in the forest. They drove the motorbikes, and had big black canvas bags slung over their shoulders. They also wore the leather biker’s gear he had seen a flash of that night. One was a man, the other a woman.

“That’s Viola”, Damien introduced the woman. “And that’s Matt.”

“And I see you’ve met Damien”, Viola said. She had a pretty, rounded face, and thick dry hair that was dyed a bright purple. The brown roots were grown out almost to her ears. She had a tattoo around her eye, the outlines of a lily.

“He’s the one who patched you up.”

Damien shrugged and gave him a small smile.

“Thank you”, Carl managed to say. “For… everything.”

“It’s okay”, Viola said, sitting down at the campfire and helping herself to some broth. “We’re basically Gods.”  
The third person, who hadn’t spoken so far, huffed. “Translation: You’re welcome.”

“That’s Matt, he’s a pessimist”, Viola said, pejoratively.

“Realist”, Matt corrected. He was a short guy, with stringy brown hair and a long face. He had a bruise on the cheek. “Your horse doesn’t like people, does it?”

“I don’t know.” Carl shrugged. “I never really was around people.”

Was that too much information?

“You are now.” Viola grinned. “At least until Damien clears you. You’re in no position to walk, you’re pumped full with painkillers right now.”

Something in her tone of voice didn’t leave room to argue.

“Okay.” He swallowed. “Thank you.”

“Like I said, we’re Gods.”

“You should eat something”, Damien said. “And sleep, after. You’re healing.”

“Got a name?”, Matt asked. “We’ve been calling you _Pirate_ so far, but I feel like you wouldn’t appreciate that name.”  
Couldn’t hurt. It was just a name.

“I’m Carl.”


	7. I never could find a place to hide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boi oh boi oh boi, that was one odd chapter to write.   
> Like, seriously.   
> But, on the bright side, me wanting to get it over with resulted in it being finished already!  
> WARNING: It's already in the tags but this chapter contains brutality, torture and implied non-con. Please be safe when reading if that is potentially mentally triggering for you.   
> Otherwise... I have nothing much to say. Reviews are always appreciated of course, and I hope you had a good week so far!  
> Love, Lotta

Over the next few days, Carl slept much and didn’t do much else. He helped Damien around the small camp, took care of Morticia, sometimes told small scraps of his story when he was asked while Damien was changing his bandages and cleaning the wounds. Viola and Matt were gone throughout the day, only came back in the evening. They brought back weapons, food, jewellery, all sorts of things. When Carl asked how they kept finding that sort of stuff, Matt grinned slyly and Viola said with a shrug: “I already told you, kid, we’re Gods.”

He should have known.

He should have fucking known.

_We’re Gods_. Viola loved that phrase. W _e’re Gods. It’s fine, we’re Gods. We’re basically Gods._ It seemed to be her reason, her excuse, for everything. It _was_ her reasoning behind everything.

Once Carl was fit enough to move again, and had halfway gotten used to his new, impaired vision – with only one eye, he learned, depth perception was basically gone, and that took a while to get used to – they took him with them on their runs. He sat behind Matt on the motorbike, or, when they took the old, banged-up truck, he sat in the load area in the back. Those were the spots Viola had given him. He learned pretty quickly that in this group, what Viola said was done.

And Viola said a lot.

_Wanted_ a lot.

Damien and Matt seemed happy to abide to her every wish and command. Carl was more reluctant. There was something off about Viola, but for a while, he couldn’t pinpoint it.

Until he could.

It was during his ninth day with them. They had driven a good bit away, the opposite direction to where Carl wanted to be going, supposedly to raid an old mall. He hadn’t even known there _was_ a mall anywhere near. But there was – and inside, as they found out, lived people. Two women, one man, a teenager who seemed slightly older than Carl.

He expected them to talk to them a bit, maybe trade some stuff.

He didn’t, hadn’t, couldn’t possibly have expected what they actually did.

With one big, sickly elegant swing of her knife, Viola slit the first woman’s throat. Then, she rammed the blade through the other woman’s neck until it broke through on the other side.

Carl thought he heard screaming, but he wasn’t sure if that was him or the girl and the man, or all of them.

It was over quickly. At their feet, the small family was bleeding out. Dark red liquid stained the cracked faux-marble floor and soaked their shoes. There were blood splatters on Carl’s face, his torn clothes, his arms.

The copper smell filled his nose and tainted his tongue and made him gag.

“Don’t be such a baby!”, Viola said, and started going through the other people’s things. “We’re Gods, okay?”

Gods. Gods indeed.

_We’re Gods_ , to Viola, translated as _I can do whatever I want because I am a God._

Carl felt sick. And he was scared. Still, once they were back at the camp in the forest, eating what Damien had prepared for them, he said: “I think I’ll be on my way tomorrow.”

“What do you mean?”, Matt asked.

“I… I need to go”, Carl said, not looking the man in the eye. “I don’t want to bother you any longer. If I’m well enough to go on runs with you, I should be well enough to get going. We’ll be out of your hair by morning, I promise…”

“You will do no such thing.”

Viola’s voice was like a steel blade.

“You owe us, Carl”, she said, giving him an unsettlingly sweet, fake smile. “We saved you. You owe us for that!”

_I didn’t ask you to_ , he wanted to say. _I didn’t ask for any of this._

He didn’t say it. He bit down on his teeth and looked Viola in the eye. “I helped with the food for nine days, almost ten. I caught dinner four times, on my own. I gave you the supplies I had in my bag. I did my part. I don’t owe you anything.”

For a brief moment, anger flickered over Viola’s face. Then, the mask of feigned calm returned.

“Yu don’t have to go, Carl”, she said. “You could stay with us. The group’s stronger than the sole person, right?”

“No, thanks.” The words were out before he could think better of it.

“What do you mean, _no thanks_?” Matt rose to his feet, eyebrows furrowed, eyes sparkling angrily. “We saved you, fucker! You can’t just leave with a _no thanks_ , we own you!”

“Like hell you do!” Carl rose to his feet as well, hand on the handle of the machete. “You saved me and I am grateful, but I paid you back, I pulled my weight and now I want to leave.”

Damien sighed. “Viola…”, he tried.

“Shut it, Damien!”

Viola took a deep breath, then gave Carl a terrifying grin. “You don’t want to stay? What about we cut you would back open so you’ll have to stay? We could cut your other eye out, or stab your other side.”

“Are you threatening me?”

His fingers curled tightly around the handle of his weapon.

“Are you seriously threatening me to stay?”

“Let me think.” Viola tapped her lips with one finger, then the devilish smile returned. “Why yes, I believe I am!”

She snapped her fingers. Before Carl had realized what that meant, Matt was lunging at him.

He came to in the early morning, with a bad headache and a burning sensation on the side of his torso.

His arms were raised over his head, and as he looked up, he noticed that he was tied to a tree.

“Sleeping Beauty is awake!”

Viola got up from her spot by the campfire and knelt down in front of him.

“I think you seriously misunderstood something here, kid”, she said, and lazily trailed her index finger over his cheekbone, along his jaw and the edge of his face bandage before forcefully grabbing him by the hair, pulling his head up until he looked at her.

“We are fucking Gods”, she drawled. “And if we want something, we take it. What we say is law. Do you understand that?”

Carl narrowed his eye and gave her the most disgusted look he could muster.

“Bite me!”, he hissed.

“Maybe later.” Viola chuckled darkly. “You made a serious mistake to make me angry, kid. Mortals shouldn’t anger the Gods.”

Carl couldn’t stop himself from laughing. It was so ridiculous!

Viola slapped him and stopped his senseless cackling. Her rings cut his face, it stung, and he smelled his own blood.

“You’ll regret that, kid, I promise you that!”

A kick landed in his side and pain exploded in his torso.

He screamed.

Damien waited until the night to give him some food and water and to wrap his ribs. “They’re just bruised”, he whispered. “You’re lucky. Again.”

“Doesn’t seem like it”, Carl murmured, not looking at him.

“You shouldn’t have angered Viola.” Damien sounded like a scared child. “You have no idea what she is capable of.”

“Oh yeah?” Carl spat out. “And you don’t know what _I_ am capable of.”

“Be quiet. Just… comply, and it won’t be as bad.” Damien changed his facial bandage and carefully treated the healing wound.

“Is that how you do it?”

It was too dark to see, but he was sure that Damien flinched.

“It’s not safe to make her angry.”

The man tied off the bandage and walked off.

It was indeed _not safe_ to make Viola angry. The first night, she left Carl alone. The day, she left him alone, tied against the tree, the rope pulled taught so he had to stand and couldn’t sit down or even slump against the trunk, while all three of them went on a run. When they came back, she allowed Damien to tie Carl loose and to “take him for a walk” so he could relieve himself and eat and drink a bit, but the rest of the night, he was back at the tree, with his arms aching from being held straight and up. His hands were numb.

Damien was asleep next to the fire, and Carl tried to sleep as well, but Viola and Matt had other plans.

He had his eyes closed, but Carl could still hear them.

Hear them extremely well.

It made him want to vomit.

His mouth tasted like copper from biting his tongue.

The next night, Viola ordered Damien to stay awake and make sure that “ _the kid_ ” watched.

That was even worse.

During the next days Viola and Matt treated Carl as their personal punching bag. When they decided that they wanted to move on, Viola got on Morticia and had Carl walking behind while Damien and Matt used the motorbikes. The truck had run out of gas.

It was hard, keeping up with the trotting horse, but he had to, otherwise he’d fall and hurt himself worse than he already was. And so, he kept up, even though his ribs hurt with every breath, and he couldn’t see well, and was sweating all over, and his hands were numb and sore around the wrists, and his legs hurt as well, and he felt weak because they barely gave him food or water enough to stay awake.

Keep walking.

You can do this.

Do it for your family.

_Keep walking._

Days bled into each other. Sometimes they kept his other eye covered with a scrap of fabric, so he couldn’t even tell whether it was day or night.

They barely fed him, or let him drink.

One time, Matt handed him a cup of something that was definitely _not_ water.

They kept him awake for big parts of the night, making him watch Viola and Matt, or beating them. Viola ordered Damien to take off his clothes, and he had to stand there, tied to a tree, on his underwear, in the cold, all night.

His dreams, the few hours of sleep they let him get, were hazy and bizarre. Sometimes he was back at the prison and saw his family turn into Walkers. Sometimes, he was under water somewhere. Sometimes he was trapped in his bunker and the walls were moving in closer and closer. Sometimes, everything was dark and he heard his sister scream and cry, and the snarling of monsters.

Viola ran the tip of a knife up and down his naked arm, along his jaw or his hairline, up his leg, over the bow of his ribs, never to injure, just to barely scratch the skin, to see him squirm and try to move away.

He could hear Matt snicker.

He could hear Damien groan almost inaudibly with what could be sympathy or fear or pity or something else.

He didn’t know.

He didn’t care.

Not anymore.

Stay alive. Keep yourself alive.

Wasn’t that a song? _Keep yourself alive_?

He thought it was.

Had his Dad played that song? His mother? Had Beth sung it to his sister?

He couldn’t remember.

There were hands on him, something wet on his cheek, a tongue, and someone tugged at his torn shirt that he’d just been allowed to put on again…

He squeezed his eyes shut and hoped for a miracle.

There was none.

Hands, everywhere, pulling him to his feet and away from the tree, turning him around.

The clinking of a belt buckle opening. The metallic _tsssssssp_ of a zipper being pulled down.

“Look at me, fucker!”

He kept his eyes shut.

“Damien, make him look!”

“Fucking hell, Matt, you can’t smoke here! This is a dry-ass forest, you’ll burn it all down!”

“Wait! Give me that!”

Something zizzling hot was pressed against his face, right next to his eye that Damien had just unwrapped to look at the healing process. Distantly, he heard himself scream.

Viola was cackling.   
“Hey, that’s a good look on him! Let’s make it symmetrical, yes?”

“Viola, please!” – Damien.

Viola sighed deeply. “Fine… just the one eye, got it.”

_Rrrttsshh_ – a match was lit on a matchbox side.

It smelled like burning hair and, absurdly, a bit like a barbeque.

His throat burned, too, from screaming.

Metallic clinking.

The fire flickered and the shadows were large and pitch black.

Viola’s face was a sinister grimace.

Matt sat by the fire, eyes wide from whatever he had taken, and almost drooling. He looked like a rabid dog.

Damien excused himself.

Fingers on his skin.

Fingers in his hair.

Rope burn on his wrists.

His arms held taught above his head.

His mouth tasted like copper.

His stomach was churning.

His eye felt dry, and the skin around them itched.

Sweat and dirt and grime on his skin.

“Look at me, fucker!”

He squeezed his eye shut and moved his head to the side.

The ring cut another gash into his cheek. It barely even stung anymore.

“I said, look at me!”

“Bite me!”

He wished he hadn’t said that. It wasn’t worth the punishment.


	8. You were my compass star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends!  
> A new evening, a new chapter - and a new perspective, too! We're finally checking in with the rest of our group!  
> As always, reviews are highly appreciated and make my day! Also, you guys have been incredibly kind so far, you are AMAZING!  
> Love, Lotta

Alexandria was like something out of a dream, Michonne thought. She wasn’t sure of it was going to be a good dream or a nightmare though.

She remembered neighbourhoods like this, from before. Places that claimed they were the future for the world, a paradise of sustainability and the _good life_ , but that were actually not affordable for anyone but for rich pricks who only lived sustainably because it was trendy or some bullshit like that.

Not that Michonne didn’t appreciate what they had here. Running warm water, food, beds, medicine, safety.

Not that she didn’t respect Deanna and her husband for building this safe place up.

It was just that this here was a utopia. And the inhabitants were soft and weak and entirely unprepared should the dead one day overrun their haven.

But she did appreciate the place. Best to enjoy it while it lasted. 

But the truth was, she felt sort of trapped, antsy, in here. It felt wrong. Sure, being able to brush your teeth and to shower, to use products on her hair again, to re-dread the hair close to her scalp, to get clean clothes, to eat well, all that was amazing, but it still felt wrong. Not just to her, she knew that. She could tell that they all felt like that, except for little Judith of course. The baby girl was blissfully ignorant. Michonne almost envied her.

They were (almost) without protection.

There were the walls, sure, and Michonne still had her sword, and they had knives, but their guns were locked away, and even though they didn’t _need_ them, it would have felt much better just to _have_ them.

And she had been made a _constable_ of this place, of all things!

As if the world still worked like that.

When Rick had retold to her Deanna’s words, she had laughed out loud in disbelief. _Patrol the neighbourhood, watch the walls, if there’s a conflict, try to help._ That was ridiculous. What this place, these people, needed was fighters, not policemen.

At least the Alexandrians understood that they needed people like their group. People who had had to survive, out in this new real world. Well, some of them understood, at least. Deanna did, and that seemed to mean a lot around here.

They had been on the road for thirty-three days, had arrived in Alexandria on the thirty-fourth. Not that Michonne was keeping track or anything.

That was a bit more than a month.

A month in this world was worth as much as a year.

Most of them had been able to flee the prison. Michonne had found Rick, Glenn had been found by Tara, one of the newcomers, and the two of them had been found by Abraham, Rosita and Eugene, the other newcomers. The lot of them had been found by Maggie, Sasha and Bob. Tyreese had been with Carol, Judith and the two little girls, Mika and Lizzie. Those two hadn’t made it. Beth and Daryl had escaped together. And they had all found each other again at Terminus.

All except for Carol, Tyreese, Beth and Carl.

Carol came for their rescue. Tyreese joined them after.

Beth, they had to free from the hospital first, but apart from some cuts on her face and a fractured braced wrist, the girl was fine.

They didn’t know if Carl was still alive.

Not knowing tore at all their heartstrings, at least all of those who had known Carl.

They had lost Bob and Tyreese on the way. They had lost Hershel. They had lost their home. And now, they had lost the kid, too.

Then, Aaron had found them, and he and his boyfriend had taken them to Alexandria. And here they were, now.

 _People measure you by what they can take from you_ , Rick had said in his interview on the first day.

 _The baby deserves a roof_ , Daryl had said.

 _If things are like you say they are_ , Michonne had said. _Then this is what we wanted. We’re ready for this. All of us._

She had meant it. They had all meant it.

They were ready for this – and they were ready for things to get ugly.

They had been given two houses, clothes, food, jobs. This was good, for now.

Carol had stolen back some of the guns for them. She seemed to fit right in here, and Michonne was impressed by her acting abilities. The Carol she knew was like Rambo, she had blown up part of Terminus, she had a damned high Walker kill count – and the Carol here was essentially a _housewife_ , a den mother. It was impressive. And helpful.

The others of them who were less great actors just stuck to their respective roles in the group. That was enough for now.

The people here had thrown a party for the new arrivers. Sasha had freaked out on a woman. Michonne didn’t know what about, but it was probably justified.

Their neighbour, a woman named Jessie, seemed nice. She had two kids, and a husband. Michonne didn’t trust that man. There was something off about him, but she couldn’t pinpoint it. But she knew that Daryl and Rick shared that sentiment.

Abraham had joined the construction crew.

Eugene, Tara, Glenn, Noah – a kid Beth had met at the hospital and who had joined the group then –and the Alexandrians Aiden, and Nicholas – Deanna’s son – had gone for a run. Noah and Aiden hadn’t come back, and Tara was in the infirmary, unconscious with a head injury.

Not _everything_ was good here.

The forest was quiet. The familiar weight of the sword was comforting over Michonne’s shoulder, and the gun in the holster on her leg was loaded.

She and Rosita were following Sasha. The young woman had seemed off recently, and when Rosita had told her that she hadn’t been seen by anybody after her shift in the watchtower, Michonne had gotten nervous.

That was an understatement.

“It’s right up ahead”, Rosita said, quietly.

“She told you about this?”, Michonne asked.

Rosita shrugged. “I saw her walk out with a rifle when she wasn’t on duty for the tower, so I asked.”

That made sense.

“This already feels so differed”, Rosita said with a shudder, and raised her knife at the sound of someone running through the thicket.

Michonne nodded. “We have to make sure we don’t fall asleep in there”, she said, darkly.

Rosita hummed in agreement.

“I don’t want to forget”, Michonne went on, quietly. “I can’t.”

“Then don’t.”

They kept walking.

And walking.

Until they found a Walker. Dead. Slumped over a tree stump, shot in the back of the head.

On the ground next to it was a picture frame, the glass shattered and splattered with blood.

It was one of the stock family photos that had been all over the house in Alexandria.

“She’s hunting them.”

Daryl didn’t like this place. At all. This wasn’t a place for a Dixon.

This wasn’t a place for any of them, really. They weren’t the _Nice neighbourhood, mowed lawn, barbeque night, dinner party_ type of people.

But it was a place where they could rest, and they could make something of the place if they tried.

They had all unlearned how to live.

Survive, yes.

Live?

How the hell should they do that?

 _If we need to, we will just take this place_ , Rick had said. Maybe they would do that.

For right now, Daryl was decently content. He was outside, doing something he knew well – tracking.

Fine, well, Aaron was with him, but he was bearable. Didn’t talk much. Was actually willing to learn and observe.

All in all, things could be worse.

They had seen a fire yesterday. Now, they were looking for the source.

Aaron tapped him on the shoulder and pointed ahead, and as Daryl looked up, he saw…

Body parts.

Two dismembered, incomplete bodies. The blood was still shiny, wet, red. The parts looked almost torn off, no clean cuts. The heads and torsos were missing.

“Whoever did this, they took the rest with them”, Daryl said in a low voice, carefully stepping around the parts. A man and a woman, if he had to guess by what was left of them, and by the remainders of their clothing. Next to one of the arms on the ground was a pair of black sunglasses. "This just happened.”

He lifted his crossbow and went on. He could hear Aaron follow him, slowly.  
They walked on, but they didn’t encounter anyone… or anything.

Until they reached a small clearing. And on a tree, completely naked, was the corpse of a woman. Her blonde hair fell in front of her face. Her bindings were steel cables. Her stomach was torn open, her intestines fell out.

“They tied her up”, Aaron whispered. “And they _fed_ on her! Tore her apart!”

Daryl didn’t say anything, just looked the body up and down.

“This just happened?”, Aaron asked.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“How the hell did this happen?”

Daryl shrugged, stepped forth and grabbed the hair, pulling the head up. Blind eyes opened, a dislocated jaw tried to snap. There was a _W_ etched into her forehead.

Daryl slammed his knife into her skull.

Damn. That was the second one with a _W_ they had seen – and if he had to take a bold guess, the other two they had found has had _W_ s on their faces as well.

“Sasha!”

The woman didn’t even turn around.

“What are you doing here?”, Rosita asked.

“I’m sick of playing defence!” Sasha stomped on even more determinately.

“So you’re just gonna take on all of them?”, Michonne asked.

“Maybe.”

This wasn’t going to be an easy talk, then. Fine. She was patient.

They kept following Sasha through the undergrowth.

Until there were some Walkers in their path.

Rosita uttered a curse. “We’ve got to get outta here.”

“You do”, Sasha said, lifting her rifle. “I don’t.”

Michonne grabbed her shoulder, roughly turned her around. “Don’t be stupid!”, she hissed. “This doesn’t do anything! It won’t help you! Let’s go!”

Sasha’s eyes were glowing with anger.

“Guys”, Rosita whispered warningly.

And suddenly, they were swarmed. Michonne pulled her sword from her sheath. “Here we go again”, she mumbled, and swung the blade forward.

To her left, Rosita rammed her knife into skull after skull after skull.

To her right, Sasha was firing shot after shot – and then, there was just klicking, no more silenced shots.

“Here!” Michonne pulled her gun from the holster and threw it to Sasha. The woman caught it and fired again.

“I don’t need help!”, she shouted.

“Like hell you don’t!” Michonne swung forward.

“I got this!”

“We do, too!”, Rosita yelled and practically nailed a Walker to a tree with her knife.

“I told you to go!”

“And we didn’t listen!” Michonne decapitated the last one and send its body stumbling back with a carefully aimed kick.

Silence.

“I fucking had it!” Sasha stared at her, eyes gleaming, brown furrowed, lower lip trembling. “I, I had… I… It worked out for you, but…”

She was trembling. Michonne waited.

“Noah!”, the woman burst out, finally. “I told him he wouldn’t make it!”

Tears started swelling up in her eyes, and she fell silent again, for a long while.

The first tears started falling.

Rosita pulled Sasha in a hug.

“It’s okay”, she whispered, as Sasha sobbed. “You’re okay, there…”

Michonne wiped off and sheathed her sword.  
“We should go back”, she said quietly.

Lori and Rick had sometimes dreamt of living in a place like Alexandria one day.

Not that they’d ever been able to afford it. But they had dreamt.

 _And now, here we are_ , Daryl had said.

He just wished Carl could see this place.

He wondered what his son would have thought of the place. Would he have loved it? Or hated it?

The thought of his son made his heart ache.

After he had found Michonne again – actually she had found him, passed out in a house somewhere – things had gotten better. Finding Daryl, too, had made things even a little easier to bear. But never completely bearable.

They had survived the Claimers.

They had survived Terminus and the insane band of cannibals.

They had saved Beth from the hospital, and that damned priest from his church.

And he hadn’t been able to save his son.

He hadn’t saved his daughter.

He hadn’t been able to keep either of his children safe. Tyreese and Carol had protected Judith. And Carl? Who protected him?

After Terminus, he had thought Alexandria was just a trick. He had been sobbing in the shower once he had realized it wasn’t.

He had been honest and blunt with Deanna. Told her that this place wouldn’t last forever, what they needed, what they lacked. But he hadn’t lied when he had said he wanted to try this. For Judith. For all of them.

He _wanted_ this place.

He had _dreamt_ of this place.

So he threw himself into his work as a constable even though it made little sense to him, and the uniform felt foreign, just like the short hair and clean-shaven face and no longer dirt-covered skin felt foreign. He walked the perimeter, checked the walls almost every hour, he made himself available to be asked for help when needed, he listened to Carol’s suspicions about Pete – she would know, she out of all people, he knew that – and went to talk to Jessie about it. He listened to her promise that she’d fix it and that things would get better, listened to her excuses, kept his rage down when she told him that he would only make things worse.

“When he’s killed you, that’s when things are worse”, he said, finally, forcing his voice into the calm, factual tone he has used at his work before. “That’s what’s next. And I can’t… I can’t let it happen like that.”  
 _Too many people are dead because of things I did or didn’t do_ , he added in thought.

She looked at him for a long while.

“Why do you care? Why… Why is this so important for you?”

He didn’t know what to answer.

“I mean, you, you’ve made it, right? You have a home for your kid, and… what are you doing, Rick?”

“I’m, I’m trying to help.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “A good friend of mine was… in a similar situation like you. And I didn’t help. I looked the other way, and things went bad!”

For _him_ , not _her_ , but he didn’t say that.

Jessie swallowed, sighed. “I can take care of myself, thanks.”

“Did you know that Sam asked for a gun to protect you?”

Jessie’s face fell.

“What?”  
“He asked for a gun.”

“He asked you for…?”

“He asked for a gun to protect you.”

A million emotions seemed to flicker over her face. 

And she walked off, closing the garage door in front of him.

He walked down the main street that circled once around all of Alexandria. The gun that he had hidden at his back, shoved in the belt and covered by his windbreaker, weighed heavily.

He climbed up to one of the two ladders that leaned against the wall next to the gate. They wanted to build a proper lookout here, but for now, the ladders were all. He leaned against the warm metallic surface, ran one hand over his face, took a deep breath.

This wasn’t an easy place.

“Hey, open up!”

Daryl stood at the foot of the gate, Aaron next to him. They both looked like they had bad news. Rick climbed down and helped the woman who had gate-duty.

Michonne, Rosita and Sasha came back a bit later. Their faces didn’t tell a pretty story, either.

“Hello there in the crown' nest”, Michonne called up to him from the foot of the ladder.

Rick climbed down again and greeted her with a short hug.

“What happened?”, he asked. 

“Sasha had a bit of a crisis, we killed some Walkers… the usual.” Michonne offered a small smile. “And you? Anything special happen?”

“Aaron an’ I found three bodies”, Daryl grumbled. “One had a _W_ , like that Walker we found a few days ago.”

The woman crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. “What about the other two?”

“Dunno. Heads were gone.”

“Well, that’s bad news.” Michonne tugged on her lip with two fingers, thinking. “I really don’t like where that’s going.”

“Me neither.” Rick looked from one to the other and then climbed back up the ladder. After a moment, Michonne followed on the second ladder.

“It’s nice up here”, she said, almost casually, leaning her arms onto the upper edge of the wall.

Rick offered a somewhat agreeing _Hmmmpf_ sound.

“Is that why you come up here so often?”

Now, what was she _really_ asking him?

“Someone needs to be on the lookout for Walkers”, he said, shrugging lightly and keeping his eyes on the road.

“If that were your reason, you’d be doing tower duty like Sasha and Abraham. And you’d be armed.”

“I am armed.” And he tapped the hidden gun with two fingers.

“Not officially.”

He sighed. “You know, maybe you should stop asking questions you already know the answer to.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Michonne looked back down at the road as well… and then, suddenly, was violently tapping his arm. Rick lifted his gaze – and saw something coming nearer. Not a Walker, a horse. And on the horse was a slumped-over figure.

“Open the gates!”, he yelled, and almost jumped down the ladder.


	9. What could I do but run and run and run?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello people!  
> Writing's been going pretty slowly this week, I've had some stuff to do with my Globalization lecture... so yeah. This chapter is on the short side again. Still, I hope you enjoy it!   
> Remember, comments are a writer's food, and always appreciated!  
> Love, Lotta

Maybe he was just imagining things, but since he had lost his eye, it felt like his other senses had gotten sharper, as if to act as a replacement. He felt like he could hear much clearer, even though it was probably more likely that his hearing had gotten increasingly worse since he had started using a gun – he hadn’t once had ear protection when shooting, and rarely had there been a silencer in his firearms. He also felt like his smelling had gotten better.

Maybe he was just more sensitive to the stench of alcohol now.

If Viola and Matt reeked like a liquor shop, nothing good usually came of it.

And tonight, the air seemed to be drenched in the scent of cheap booze. It almost covered up the smell of the small fire, and the can of stew that Damien was heating up.

Carl stayed silent, his head leaned against his arm, eye closed.

Pretending to be asleep worked out well about half of the time. Viola seemed to enjoy torturing her victims when they were conscious.

Maybe he was lucky.

They had left him alone for over a day now, so he wasn’t very hopeful.

_Luck is a rare currency these days._

“The fact you found a whole-ass liquor stash in the middle of nothing is amazing!”, Matt yelled. His speech was already slurred a bit.

“’t wasn’t a stash”, Damien replied, quietly. “It was a broken down truck, the Creeper inside must’ve been a damned drunkard…”

“That was a compliment, asshole, take it and say thank you like a good boy!”

Viola sounded hoarse tonight.

“Yes. Right.” Carl couldn’t see him, but he knew that Damien was bowing his head, avoiding the other two’s faces. “Thank you, Matt.”

“See? That’s a good boy”, Viola praised.

She was talking to him like to a dog, Carl thought. And it fit, honestly, because Damien _behaved_ like a dog. Like a beaten scared dog. Hell, Carl had seen him literally eating from Viola’s outstretched hand. It was grotesque.

Matt wasn’t much better. He wasn’t scared of Viola the way Damien was, but he, too, was sickeningly obedient to her. If she called, he came.

Over the past days – he wasn’t sure how many it had been – he had taken the time to figure out their dynamic. It had been a good distraction. At first, he had just tried to let his mind wander off to better times, to better memories, but he had quickly turned towards plotting. At least, as long as things were bearable. When they weren’t, he retreated to a happier corner of his mind and waited until it was over.

Viola, clearly, was the leader. The alpha of the pack. What she said was done. Matt was something like her second in command, and Damien was like the runt of the litter or something, ever so obedient to his master.

He wasn’t the problem. In fact, he was the only one around here who was nonthreatening. Even Morticia was more dangerous than him. Carl had never seen him hold a knife without trembling.

Matt was lanky in build, but probably still very strong, especially since Carl ran on less sleep than he ought to, was underfed and wasn’t given a lot of water. A week or something ago, he would easily have been able to take him on – now, he wasn’t so sure.

Viola was the actual problem here. Carl wasn’t sure how physically strong she actually was, but he knew that she had a very firm grip and no qualm. She also was, Carl was convinced of this, absolutely batshit crazy, and that didn’t exactly put things in his favour.

If faced with a fight, she’d put Damien first, then Matt, before actually fighting herself. She only actually attacked when there was no danger to her own life, Carl had seen that.

If he wanted to leave, he had to take them out when they were asleep.

If he could get loose, that was.

The past few days, they had taken his arms down, and they were tied behind his back, the long rope that had served to keep his hands and arms raised above his head was wrapped around the tree now.

Whatever had provoked that decision, Carl would make the most of it.

As the night grew colder – and with that, he knew, darker – he carefully let his eye slip open. Over the past few hours, he had dozed a bit, but had remained awake enough to pay attention. He had long perfected that technique, all the way back to before the prison. Now, it came in handy.

Damien was sitting at the fire, head and shoulders bowed, and every now and then, his head snapped up. He was close to falling asleep.

The fire was burning low.

Matt was leaned against Viola’s shoulder, eyes closed. Viola seemed to tolerate it for now, but if Carl were to guess, she’d grow annoyed with it soon. That could end in two ways, anger and aggression or her tiredly shoving him to the side and maybe a few insults.

He hoped it would be the latter.

Slowly, he started moving his fingers. He had been doing this in small intervals every day, but especially since they had let his hands down. His fingers weren’t numb anymore, now that there was blood in them again – the binds weren’t so tight that they cut off circulation, a fact he probably had Damien to thank for, but they still left his wrists bruised and burned and full of small abrasions.

Specific movements could loosen the binds, he knew that. He also knew that right above his wrist, his arm was actually a tiny bit slimmer, and if he could move his hands a bit lower, then he’d have quite a bit of wiggle room… Slowly, though. Agonizingly slowly.

Under his lashes, he peered over to the fire again, careful to not change his posture and thus blow his cover. Viola was sitting on the ground, elbows leaning on her knees and her cheek resting on one hand. There was a big bottle dangling loosely from her other hand. Several other bottles were sitting on the ground around the three of them.

How long had they been drinking? An hour? Less? Longer?

Slowly, he turned his right hand a bit, then slowly moved it up and down, stretching the arms apart from each other oh so slowly…

“Get off me, idiot!”

Viola shoved Matt to the side, he flopped over and stayed where he was.

Good. He was passed out, by the looks of it. So was Damien by now, he noticed – he was curled up by his side of the fire.

Two down, one to go. Great.

If felt like an eternity, but Carl kept moving and wiggling his hands as slowly but effectively as he could, slowly making himself more room within the binds.

At some point, Viola slumped to the side, the bottle rolling from her hand.

Carl held his breath.

She didn’t sit back up. A few moments later, she started snoring softly.

Now or never!  
He curled the fingertips of one hand around whatever part of the ropes he could grab, and shoved them up as quickly as he could and – yes, it was above his wrist now. Good. Okay. Now the other one… he glanced over to Viola and Matt, but they seemed sound asleep. He moved his wrists as far apart from each other as he could and wiggled and shoved and – yes! Okay, now the next step… he curled his fingers upward and started working on the knot.

The fire was almost out when he finally, finally got loose. Quietly, he slipped out from the ropes and got to his feet, biting down on his teeth as his legs were filled with a weird needle-stabbing-sensation. Okay, he could work with this… other than his arms, they had given him quite a range of free movement with his legs, and that turned out as a good thing now. Slowly, he stumbled over to where Morticia was tied against a tree. Obviously, they had treated her better than him – her bucket was in front of her, full of water, and a half-eaten apple was on the ground next to it.

Carl held out his hand and let the horse sniff it. She still seemed to recognize him. Thank goodness!

He bowed down, cupped his hand and drank some of the water. It tasted bad and it was probably not exactly safe to drink something full of horse spit, but he really, really didn’t care right now. Water was water.

Once his mouth wasn’t dry anymore, he went through his pack that was still tied to the saddle, slowly, trying to avoid sounds, and found his knife and machete. Everything seemed to be in its place, even his hat that he had shoved into the backpack before he had tried to leave. It seemed too good to be true.

He could just leave now. Get on the horse and ride off. But one, he was pretty weak still, two, it was dark, three, if his captors woke up and noticed he was gone, they had two motorbikes to follow him with.

He had already thought about this.

A lot.

Carefully, slowly, he crept closer.

Viola first – then Matt. Damien, he didn’t want to kill. He would, if he had to, but he felt bad thinking about that. Damien, despite being a coward, had at least tried to help him a bit. Had been, as far as he could, been nice, even.

If Viola and Matt were dead, Damien would be lost, he figured. Unsure what to do. But he wouldn’t take revenge. He wasn’t that kind of person. He was just extremely scared.

With that, it was decided.

It went by, fast. First, he slit their throats, and then he swung the machete. Blood splattered and covered him head to toe, got in his mouth and stained his hands. He spat out and hacked down again.

He took the time to clean himself a bit with water from Viola’s pack, as good as he could in complete darkness with a small plastic bottle and a scrap of a shirt. Then, he went through the rest of their stuff. He hit jackpot with Damien’s – there was a packet of sugar in it. Why, he didn’t know. He didn’t care, either. Carefully, still as quietly as he could, he crept over to the bikes, located the gas tanks (thanking Daryl in his mind for talking to him about motorbikes) and poured the white crystals in.

Better to be safe than sorry.

He tightened the girth of the saddle, climbed up and pressed his legs against Morticia’s sides. She snorted softly and started trotting. He clicked his tongue and she started running.

The air whistled in his ears, and his empty stomach churned and his body was sore and aching, but his mind was yelling _Free! Free! Free!_ as he left behind the raided camp with the two dismembered bodies.

He should feel bad about this.

He did.

But mostly, he was tired, and relieved, and free.

He would be okay. Everything would be okay now.

Just go, go, go, go –


	10. What is a force that binds the stars?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello people!  
> I had a good writing flow this week to this chapter is a longer one again. Unfortunately, I'll have to focus on preparing an important presentation for the next two weeks so I can guarantee that the next one will be, too, though I'll try.   
> I hope you like this one for now - as always, comments are food for the soul and highly appreciated.   
> Loads of love, Lotta

It was hot, and his mouth was dry and tasted of iron. The right left of his mouth was torn, his head was throbbing, his stomach churned, his face around his eye – or lack thereof – was an odd combination of burning and sore and numb, and he was almost sure he had at least sprained his left wrist, maybe even fractured it. With the adrenaline of his escape long gone from his system, he was left with extreme exhaustion, lead-heavy limbs and mushy thoughts.

He didn’t even know how Morticia kept going. Because it definitely was her at this point, not him. All his remaining focus was on not falling out of the saddle, and to keep his torso somewhat upright. Actually, he was surprised that Morticia was holding on so well. After they had left the camp, they had gone on and on for hours, in the dark, the wind whipping into their faces, until they had found themselves back on the road, and then… then he had probably fallen asleep. He had tied himself to the saddle with his belt so he wouldn’t fall, but he hadn’t actually believed it would work as well as it had… he didn’t know if Morticia had slept, or dozed, in that time, or if she had kept going or if she had taken the time to eat, but when he’d woken up she had been walking, and after a short break for food and drinking and other important things, they had kept going.

And going.

Until their food and water was almost completely gone.

Until the sun burned down on them.

Until Carl couldn’t stay upright in the saddle, was slumped over Morticia’s neck, face pressed into her mane, and his mouth was dry and tasted of iron, and his face and his stomach and hand hurt.

His eye slipped closed.

Beneath him, Morticia kept going. Going and going and…

At some point, he came back to consciousness, and realized that Morticia had taken a turn into the underwood somewhere. She was slowly walking on, her head low, snorting softly.

“Hey”, Carl rasped and pushed himself up from the saddle with one hand. “Hey, girl…”

Morticia’s head snapped up and she stopped abruptly.  
“Whoa! What’s wrong?”

Bleary-eyed, he looked up, trying to get his eye to focus… he only saw green, but Morticia’s ears were flicking front, then one back, then both to the front again, as if she was hearing something Carl didn’t.

He held his breath, closed his other eye, searching for the handle of his machete on the saddle with one hand. He could hear the wind in the tree tops, and a bird somewhere, but no Walkers anywhere.

“What is it, girl?”, he whispered. Morticia took a few small steps forward. Carl didn’t stop her. She had brought them… somewhere… while he had been out of it for a big part of the time. He trusted her to bring them… somewhere else. Maybe that was stupid, but whatever.

His eye slipped closed again, but this time, he forced himself to open it again. Stay awake! Time for that later.

He was thirsty. His stomach was gurgling uncomfortably. He kept his head bowed, and his body swayed from side to side lightly with every step his mount took. His hair was dangling in front of his face.

Suddenly, there was sunlight flooding everything, and the ground beneath them changed from dirt and rocks and fallen leaves to grass, and then to concrete.

“Good job”, Carl whispered, and weakly patted Morticia’s neck. The mare huffed and walked on, following the road she had found. Forward, forward, the rhythm of her even steps almost lulling him into a doze again…

It seemed far away, but someone was yelling, and something metallic was scraping over something and rattling against something, his head snapped up – the sun was directly in his eyes, he could only see shapes, but there was a gate, and people running toward them, Morticia shrieked and jumped, getting on her hind legs for a second –

“Whoa, girl!”, Carl rasped, grabbing her mane, trying not to fall off, and then there was a hand on the reins right in front of him, and people surrounding them, danger, danger, danger!

“It’s okay!”, one of them yelled, and then again, softer. “It’s okay! Hey, it’s us!”

Carl blinked and shook his head, and before he could even fully register it, someone had opened the buckle of the belt that had kept him tied to the saddle, and they pulled him down and wrapped their arms around him, and he was about to fight his way free when he heard them utter a single word, almost inaudible between two sobs: “Carl!”

His heart seemed to stop for a second, and his whole body froze. Then, carefully, he pulled free and blinked at the person holding him – “Dad!”

Again, he was pulled into a hug, but this time, he held on, held on for dear life, clutching fistfuls of shirt fabric, tears running over his face and sobs making his body shake…

“You’re okay”, his Dad whispered. “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re safe…”

“Rick”, another voice said, softly, warningly, and then Carl felt himself be picked up and carried – he whipped his head around to see where his horse was, and there was Glenn – _Glenn was alive!_ – holding her on the reins, leading her with him – and then they were through some kind of gate that closed behind them with a loud metallic scraping and howling, and his father was on his knees, still holding him, and Carl didn’t let go either. It felt like he had been carrying a leaden weight that had suddenly been taken off his back.

“My god, let the boy breathe”, a grumpy voice said, and Carl felt the arms around him pull back and when he looked up, he saw Daryl and Michonne, who stood behind his Dad.

“Hi”, Carl whispered.

Michonne knelt down and hugged him, tightly, and he felt Daryl’s hand on his shoulder, and another weight seemed taken away. He felt dizzy, and for a moment, spots were dancing in front of his vision, he swayed…

“He needs to go to the infirmary”, someone said, and in a corner of his mind, Carl agreed, and he tried to get to his feet, but his knees buckled underneath him, and he fell down again.

“Careful”, his Dad whispered. “Here, c’mon…”

And he picked Carl up and started walking towards somewhere – Carl’s vision kept fading in and out and his head hurt, he pressed his face against his father’s shoulder and didn’t look up again until he was gently sat down onto a bed of something.

Michonne was pacing outside of the infirmary. Daryl was sitting on the steps of the porch, tugging at a small braided leather band in his wrist. Pete had only allowed Rick to stay inside, and so here they were.

Michonne’s insides felt like they had been tossed into a kitchen blender that was turned on onto the highest setting. She had chewed on her nail of her index finger until the skin was bleeding. Her lip was next to break and bleed, she knew, she kept tugging at it with two fingers. She couldn’t stand still. She went crazy, not knowing, pacing like a caged animal…

“Calm down”, Daryl said, gruffly as ever. “He’s in good hands.”

Michonne stopped and looked at him. “We _left_ him, Daryl! He was alone out there! Have you seen his-“

“Yeah I did.” Daryl tapped the steps next to him. Michonne sighed and sat down.

“He’ll be okay”, Daryl said, gently. “The doc’s gonna do his best.”

“His _eye_ is missing, Daryl!”

“Yeah. I know.”

Michonne sniffed, biting down on her teeth. _Don’t cry now, woman, you can do that later, dammit!_ “I can’t believe he’s still alive.”

It came out as a whisper.

“I mean, we all hoped, but…”

Daryl hummed lowly, looking over the calm neighbourhood of Alexandria.

“Does anyone else know?”, he asked.   
Michonne shook her head. “Unless you ran to tell everyone?”

“Nah.”

“Then no.” Michonne pulled her legs close to her chest and crossed her arms over her knees. “Though maybe Glenn told some people. Maggie and Beth. The rest of the old group.”

Again, Daryl responded by making a small grunt-like sound.

After what felt like hours, Rick stepped out of the door. Michonne jumped to her feet.

“Is he okay?”

“Uh… not really. I mean…” Rick’s eyes were bloodshot and red and he was trembling. Michonne crossed the distance and pulled him into her arms, and stood still while the man wept against her shoulder. By god, he had kept the tears in for ages. It was high time he broke down.

She held him, until he pulled back.

“Pete, he says he’ll live”, Rick whispered. “But he’s not in great shape.”  
“Yeah, I saw.” She gave him a small smile. “Wanna go back in? Or did the doc throw you out?”

They walked in. Over her shoulder, Michonne saw Daryl walk the opposite direction.

Carl was sitting in one of the sick beds, leaned against the pillows. His face had been washed clean of the dirt, but his hair was still grimy and sweaty. Clear liquid was in an IV bag that was connected to his right wrist. His eyes – eye – was closed, and there was a new, clean bandage covering half of his face. A small butterfly band aid was taped over a bigger cut on his cheekbone, and the other small cuts had been cleaned. His left hand was wrapped in bandages as well.

Pete was waiting for them by the doorframe. “He’s exhausted”, he told them quietly. “But he’ll be fine. However he lost that eye, someone took care of it, kept it clean and wrapped it. He’s got a scar on his side that’s been cleaned and cauterized, and his ribs are bruised, but it’s almost healed. He has bruises all over, in various states of healing. He’s also malnourished and dehydrated. The IV should take care of the worst, but that’s something you should keep an eye on once he is cleared to leave here. Okay?”

Michonne nodded, not really looking the doc in the eye, instead staring at Carl. It was so surreal, the boy being here now, alive and well – well enough at least.

“I’ll leave you alone with him”, Pete said. “But be careful not to upset him.”

“Of course”, Rick mumbled, and moved past the surgeon to sit on his son’s bed. Michonne followed.

Feeling the bed dip under him, Carl opened his eyes.

“Hi”, he whispered.

“Hello there, buddy.” Michonne gave him a smile, well aware that it was a watery one.

“How’re you feeling, Carl?”, Rick asked, gently taking Carls right hand. The boy froze for a split second, but then he relaxed.

“Okay now”, he said, slowly, his eye wandering up to the ceiling as he thought about it. “Painkillers are doing a lot of work here, I guess.”  
Michonne laughed. “Sure they do.”

They didn’t say anything more for a while, they just sat together, Rick running his thumb in circles over the back of his son’s hand.

“What is this place?”, Carl asked, finally.

“It’s called Alexandria”, Rick explained. “It’s, uh… used to be a gated community. Now it’s a Safety Zone.”

“How safe?”

“Well, there are walls”, Michonne started. “We’re building a watchtower… there’s food, water, electricity.”

“So… here to stay?” Carl’s eye searched for his father’s gaze. Rick nodded. “Hopefully.”

Carl fell back into the pillows with a small sigh. “Good. Can I sleep now?”

Rick nodded, gently reaching up to run his hand through Carl’s hair, but stopping when his son flinched.

“Sorry”, the boy whispered.

_What happened to you?,_ Michonne wanted to ask _. What happened that you’re flinching? Who hurt you?_ But she didn’t say anything, just gave him another small smile. “Yeah, go to sleep”, she said.

“My, my horse…” Carl’s voice was already slurred. “Is she…”  
“Glenn and Maggie are taking care of her”, Rick promised.

“She needs water”, Carl said quietly. “And food…”  
“They’ll handle it”, Michonne promised. “Rest now, okay?”

Carl nodded, and closed his eye. A few seconds later, his breathing evened out and he was fast asleep.

Carl wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep, or how long he’d been in the infirmary, but at some point, the doctor checked him over for the last time and then declared him okay to go. He didn’t feel dizzy anymore, and he could see clearly again, and he had eaten and drunken, so he actually felt pretty good. Better than he had before, anyways. He didn’t hurt for the first time in ages, so that was great.

His Dad was there to pick him up – he still couldn’t believe his father was alive! – and he lead him through this strange new place to a house that, apparently, belonged to them.

Alexandria.

Carl really, really didn’t know what to think of the place. When he stepped outside the infirmary, he saw bright buildings without any signs of wear, and cut lawns, flowers, a lake in the middle, a road that circled all around the place… it didn’t fit at all into the world outside, it was like he had travelled back in time or into some alternate dimension or something.

“Weird place”, he said. His father nodded. “I know. It’s surreal, huh?”  
“Very.”

His father chuckled lowly. “C’mon.”

And he lead him up the small stairs in front of a house that had the number 101 painted next to the door and on the uppermost step.

“This and that one there are ours”, Rick said, and opened the door.

_Ours – our houses_. That was surreal, too, Carl thought, and stepped in.

“Who lives where?”, he asked, and looked around. He had to actually move his head way more than he had had to before. They had stepped into a small hallway that was connected to a kitchen and a living room, and there were stairs leading up. The walls where a light grey, the furniture white.

“Uh, Sasha, Glenn, Maggie and Beth are next door with some others we found on the way”, his Dad said. “Daryl, Michonne, Carol and Judith live here.”  
“Judith?!”

Carl stared at his Dad in disbelief.

“She’s alive?”

“Yeah.” There was a flicker of emotions on his Dad’s face as he realized that Carl didn’t actually know what had happened to them all after the prison. “Yeah, she’s outside somewhere with Michonne, d’you wanna see her?”

It was a purely rhetorical question, because Rick’s hand was already on the door handle again, and they walked out and across the neighbourhood again towards a small paddock by the walls. Carl walked a few steps behind his Dad, looking around as they went, still taking in this foreign, odd new place, but Rick was already walking in that specific confident way people walked when they knew their way around. He wondered how long their group had been here. What had happened to the others, to the ones his Dad hadn’t named yet.

He didn’t actually have to wonder about that of course. He already knew.

The paddock looked fairly new and was crudely made, but it held. There was a big trove of water and another one with food, and two horses inside, one was Morticia, the other a slightly smaller black horse with much shorter hair. There were a bunch of people standing at the fence.

Michonne noticed them first, turning around and giving them a smile. Judith was sitting on her hip, leaned against her arm, and before he even knew it Carl was running, and then his little sister was _right there_ , with her huge round eyes and thin hairfluff, and tears were running down his face again, and Judith was babbling in his ear, not even afraid of him, of the bandage. She still knew who he was.

“Hey, there”, he whispered. “Hi Judith!”

Michonne’s hand was on his shoulder for a moment.

“Aren’t you gonna say hi to us, too?”, a new voice said, Carl turned around and once again found himself in a tight hug, one that actually pulled him off his feet for a moment. Glenn.

“Good to see you’re still alive”, the man said as he let him go. “Your horse really doesn’t like me.”

“He’s just sour because she bit him”, Maggie said, and hugged him as well. People really loved to hug him these days, huh? Not that he minded.

“Yeah she’s like that”, he said and gave the couple a small grin before leaning over the fence and reaching out. Morticia came to him, nudging his hand and his shoulder, sniffing for treats.

“Stop that”, he told her sternly.

After he had given her and the other horse – which was named Buttons, he learned –

some well-deserved pats and forehead-scratches, he followed his Dad and Michonne back to the house. By now, Daryl had returned from wherever he had been, and was sitting on the porch, cleaning his crossbow and bolts. He gave them a small nod when they approached.

“Good to see you on your feet”, he told Carl lowly. Carl gave him a nod in response and then went back inside.

While Michonne prepared a fresh bottle for Judith, she handed the girl to Carl, and he carried her on his hip while walking around the house some more. The living room had books on shelves, and Michonne’s sword was resting on two nails over the fireplace. There were some toys on the carpet, big, plastic, bright colours. Carefully, he sat down and waited until Judith pointed at one. He picked it up – a purple ball made from a plastic honeycomb-pattern and handed it to her. Judith giggled and grabbed it, shaking it around a bit, the way babies played with such things. It was clumsy, but sweet, and Carl laughed. Laughing felt good.

A woman came to ask him questions, Deanna. Apparently, she ran the place. Carl sat down on the sofa, eying her and the camcorder camera she had brought suspiciously, but he let her record the whole thing, and answered most of her questions. She probably knew parts of it already from interviewing the group, the whole story of the farm and the prison, but whatever… he told her, vaguely, about the French Family and how he had found Morticia, about the bunker and the people who had ambushed him at night. He left out Damien, Viola and Matt. He couldn’t tell her that. When she asked who had patched him up, he just shrugged. Thankfully, she let it go.

“This is mostly procedure”, she said. “I already said the rest of your group could stay, that includes you, I don’t see why you should be an exception.”

“Thanks”, Carl said, mostly to be friendly. In his head, the three questions echoes around. How many Walkers have you killed? How many people have you killed? Why?

After Deanna had left, his Dad showed him the upstairs rooms. A large bedroom, a few smaller ones. Carol had claimed the pull-out sofa downstairs, so one room would be Judith’s and another one was his. Daryl, Michonne and his Dad shared the big one, apparently. He wasn’t really surprised by that.

Someone, maybe Glenn, maybe his Dad, had taken down his belongings from Morticia’s saddle and brought them into the room. His hat was sitting on the pillow of the bed.

“So it survived the journey, too”, his Dad said. “I’m glad.”

“Me too.” Carl opened the backpack and slowly started unpacking. It wasn’t a lot in there anymore. His gun, unloaded, knives, empty plastic boxes, the book from the bunker, the coffee beans and empty water bottles. His machete was still there, too.

“They asked us to give up the guns”, his father said. “We only get them when we go out.”

“What?”

His Dad shrugged, turned around and lifted his jacket a bit, revealing the handle of a gun. “Officially, anyways.”

Carl allowed himself a small chuckle.

“So officially I only had my machete, then?”  
“I’d say so.”

And so, he had put his sparse belongings into the empty top of the dresser. The one below, he found, had clothes in it. Clothes roughly his size. Jeans, shirts, flannels, underthings and socks. Greys, greens, blues, blacks.

“Oh, yeah, there’s a two other families here, with a son your age”, his Dad said. “They brought that over yesterday.”

“That’s nice”, he mumbled, running his fingers over the fabric.

“The bathrooms through there. Come down when you’re ready.” And with that, his father left him alone.

The shower – showers, warm water, what fucking sorcery was this? – felt great. Really great. It took a while to detangle his hair and to get all the dust and dirt and dried blood off of his body, and even after his skin was scrubbed clean, he still felt sort of tainted. A different kind of tainted, one that water and soap couldn’t wash away. He knew he had to talk to someone about _that_ , but for now, it was okay the way it was.

He turned the shower off. 

Got dried off and dressed.

Looked at himself in the mirror, the fading bruises, the scrapes, the burn scars around the empty socket.

Sighed.

Walked back downstairs.

Michonne helped him rewrap his wrist. “Do you want that dressed, too?”, she asked, and pointed at his eye.

He thought about it, then shrugged.   
“I don’t know. It doesn’t bleed anymore. But it’s probably best to keep it covered. It might scare people.”

“Okay. Your call.”

He nodded, and held still while she placed some folded fabric over the socket and wrapped the bandage around his head. It felt different when she did from when Damien had done it. He didn’t flinch away from the touch this time.

The sun set, and the rest of the group came home. The only one from the last group he hadn’t met again so far were Beth and Carol, who both hugged him briefly before they started making dinner in the kitchen, and Sasha, who greeted him with a wave of a hand and a pat on the shoulder. Carol’s hair had grown out longer, and Beth had a cast on her hand and two scars on her face that were both new. She seemed much more bitter and less soft than when Carl had last seen her, which made sense. Sasha had her hair braided now and there was something stoic about her that hadn’t been there before.

The other people, he didn’t know. His father introduced them. One was a Latina with thick black pigtails called Rosita, then there was Abraham, who seemed to be her partner, a tall, muscular man with coppery-red hair and an impressive moustache, a young woman with short dark hair named Tara, a bald, black pastor called Gabriel and finally, Eugene, who was a bit pudgy with an oily black mullet and a slightly pouty face.

They were all family now, apparently. The group had walked here together, found each other after the attack on the prison. Maybe one day he would learn what their stories were, but for now, he was content sitting there, on the floor, with a bowl of pasta in his hands, seeing his family that he had been looking and looking and looking for, seeing them healthy and happy and alive.

This was okay, for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here's the chronology of the story so far: 
> 
> Day 59: Rick Grimes wakes up in the hospital  
> Day 60: Rick Grimes is reunited with his wife and son  
> Day 63: The group arrives at the CDC  
> Days 67/68: The group, part by part, arrive at the Greene Farm  
> Day 300/301: The group arrives at the prison   
> Day 504: The Governor attacks the prison.   
> Day 507: Carl is found by the French family Lefevre  
> Day 513: Jeremi comes back as a Walker, bites his wife and son and Carl kills Laurine and Benni upon Laurine’s wish  
> Day 515: Carl finds Morticia the horse  
> Day 517: Carl arrives at the ruins of Terminus  
> Day 520: Carl finds the bunker. At the same time (for reference) the group is travelling towards Richmond, Virginia  
> Day 527: Carl leaves the bunker for good, headed for Washington.   
> Day 528: Carl wakes up in company of Matt, Viola and Damien.   
> Days 529-545: Carl travels on with Matt, Viola and Damien. Meanwhile, specifically on Day 538, the group reaches Alexandria.   
> Days 546: Carl escapes from Matt, Viola and Damien.  
> Day 548: Carl arrives in Alexandria


	11. I wore this mask to hide my scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> New week, new chapter! I hope you like it. This week's been a bit stressful and the next ones will be too (I have a presentation due by 17.12. so... uargh) but I'm trying to maintain a good posting schedule.  
> As always, reviews are much appreciated and I love hearing (well, reading) from all of you!  
> Love, Lotta

Sleeping in a real bed was weird. Waking up in a house was weird. Walking down the stairs and into the kitchen where Carol was feeding his baby sister and where his Dad was drinking coffee was weird.

He could work with _weird_.

“Coffee?”, Michonne asked.

“Sure.” Carl sat down at the table and, a bit awkwardly still, poured some cereal and milk into a bowl.

“Well, I’m gonna go”, Carol said. “I promised that terrible Mrs. Neudermeyer I’d show her how to make pasta. Carl, could you…”

Carl set his mug down and took Judith and her half-empty bottle, changing his position a bit so both he and his sister were comfortable as they took their breakfast.

He could feel his father’s gaze on him as he ate.

“Where are Michonne and Daryl?”, he asked.   
“Daryl’s outside with Aaron – uh, Aaron found us and brought us here.” His Dad cleared his throat. “Michonne’s patrolling the town.”  
“Patrolling?”

“Yeah, Deanna made her and me constables.”  
“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

For a moment, there was just silence, apart from Judith’s happy gurgling sounds. Carl let his gaze wander through the room. The kitchen isle had a marble countertop. There was a TV mounted on a sideboard that he knew no program was running on. There were some DVDs beneath it though. The windows had half-transparent woven brown blinds on them.

“Carl, I think we need to talk”, his Dad said, finally.

“Do we?” Carl bit his tongue, but it was too late. “Yeah, we do”, he corrected himself, because they did, of course they did. “Can I finish my breakfast though?”

It was a poor attempt at a joke, but his father chuckled nonetheless.

And so, they ate up, put their dishes in the dishwasher and sat Judith down on the carpet to play. They were kneeling next to her, handing her toys and making sure she didn’t fall over or anything, while they talked.

“Where should I start?”, Carl asked.

“Wherever you want”, his Dad said. “Or, or I could start, if that’s better?”

“Maybe that, yes.”

So his Dad leaned back against the sofa and started talking. After the Governor had almost killed him, he had escaped, beaten and bloody, and had broken down in an abandoned house somewhere. Michonne had found him there, and they had walked on together until they had found Daryl again. Daryl, who had escaped together with Beth, but they had been split up. Glenn had been found by Tara, they had found Abraham, Rosita and Eugene. Maggie, Sasha and Bob had found them. Tyreese had escaped with Judith and the two little girls, Mika and Lizzie. Carol had found them. They had reunited at Terminus.

“I was there”, Carl said. “It was all burned down.”  
“Yeah.” His Dad took a while to tell him what had happened. “They were cannibals”, he said, finally. “They lured in people and if they didn’t join them, they killed them.”

Carl made a gagging sound.

“They got what they deserved. Carol blew a bunch of them up.”

“A bunch?”

“A few escaped and followed us”, his Dad admitted, and told the rest of the story. How they had found Father Gabriel and his church, how they had raided the food bank, how they had fought the remaining Terminus-people when they had attacked them. How they had put Bob down after he had been bitten, and after the Cannibals had eaten his leg. How they had gotten Beth back, who had been found by some other group. His Dad didn’t say much about what had happened there. Carl didn’t ask.

They had followed their plan that they had made right after Terminus – that they would go to Washington, to get Eugene, the scientist, to make the cure.

“Except it turned out he is no scientist”, Rick said, bitterly.

“I found the sign”, Carl said. “I was at the church, too.”

His father gave a nod and told the end bit. How they had left for Washington, how they had broken down, how they’d had to put down Tyreese and finally, how Aaron had found them in the barn and taken them to Alexandria.

Then, it was Carl’s turn.

Well, shit.

“After the prison was attacked… I ran. I just ran, Dad.”

Rick nodded, not saying anything. Carl took a deep breath, looked down at his sister, handed her the purple ball she liked. “I must’ve kept going for a few days, and then I sort of… collapsed. A family found me.”  
He went through that part in only a few quick sentences. Factual. That made it hurt less, what had happened. He outlined his journey up to the point where he had found his bunker, keeping it blunt and short. His Dad listened, not asking any questions.

“I figured… before getting on the road to find you, I should get used to killing Walkers from horseback. So I stayed there for a few days. Maybe, maybe six days. Then I got back out.”

He described the road, the nightly attack. The closer he came to the next part, the tighter did his chest feel. He cleared his throat, ran his finger over his wrist bandage, plucked at his lip.

“Carl?” His Dad’s voice was rough, soft, and worried. “We can stop if you…”  
“No. No, it’s okay.” He took a deep breath. “It’s okay.”

And he started describing what had transpired after. He was okay for the first bit, but once he got to the events at the mall, he found himself getting choked up. His hands were shaking.

“Carl?”

There was a hand on his arms, and he flinched back, for a second _back there_ before he realized that it was just his Dad.

“We can stop”, his Dad offered. Carl shook his head, violently.

“If I stop I don’t think I can start again”, he whispered. “I… I just need a minute.”

“Okay. Okay, yeah, take your time.”

He nodded, focussing on taking long, deep breaths, until he didn’t choke anymore, and the stinging behind his eyes lessened.

“Okay?”, his father asked.

“Okay.”

Another deep breath and then he kept talking.

By the end of it, he was in tears once again, shaking violently, and he had plucked on his fingers so much that the sides of the nailbeds were frayed and bloody. He was in his father’s arms, and Rick was slowly running his hand up and down his spine, and whispered in his ear, apologies and encouragements and nothings. Judith was sitting half on the carpet, half on Carl’s lap, a tiny hand curled around the lower edge of Carl’s shirt, and seemed distraught and fussy, but at least she didn’t understand yet why her father and brother were so upset. She wasn’t crying though, just looking at them with big worried eyes. As worried as a toddler could be anyways.

Carefully, Carl moved back a bit, just enough that he could pull his sister against his chest. She immediately held on, babbling to herself a bit, and the soft noises were oddly comforting. He could breathe a bit easier.

His Dad was still holding him, holding them both. He was shaking and crying too.

“I’m so sorry”, he whispered hoarsely. “I am so, so sorry, Carl, I…”

“Not your fault, Dad. That was all them. I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not.”

He got out a wet laugh. “No, I’m not.”

But he would be. Eventually. He was safe now.

“Do, do you remember the questions we used to ask?”, he whispered.

“Yeah.”

“Back when we were at the prison, my answer to the second would have been _One_. That Woodbury soldier. Now it’s _Five_.”

The Woodbury soldier, Laurine, Benni, Viola and Matt.

“Well, I think I still killed more than you. You just defended yourself.”

“I know. I know that.”

He did. But still. He had killed. He had left someone behind to wake up next to two dismembered corpses. And somehow, he didn’t have it in him to feel remorse for it.

He had just defended himself.

There was a small wooden platform built into one of the trees. He was sitting up there, hidden by the leaves, his hat on his knees. There was a lot he had to think about. His fingers weren't shaking anymore, but he still _felt_ shaky. Probably would feel like that for a while. It would take a long while until he was even remotely okay, he knew that. But he would be – he was way too stubborn not to. He had come so far already.

He had walked through Alexandria after his talk with his Dad. He had looked at the houses, at the people. All of them were clean, in clothes that weren’t torn and unravelling, with their hair cut and without scars.

He didn’t know whether to envy or to pity them.

His Dad had said that there were other kids here. He hadn’t seen them yet. He didn’t even know if he wanted to.

“Hey, that’s my spot!”

He jumped at the sudden voice. It was Beth, who looked over the top of the rope ladder.

“Sorry”, he said.

“Doesn’t matter. Mind if I join you?”

He shook his head, and the older girl pulled herself onto the platform, sitting down across from him, cross-legged.

“How’s your first night been?”, she asked.

“Strange”, he admitted. “I’m not used to beds anymore.”

“It was the same for me”, she said. “All of this is… it’s weird, right?”

“Yeah.”

“When we first came here, Deanna held a party for us”, Beth told him. “Sasha freaked out on some other woman.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure. I think she wanted to know what Sasha’s favourite food was? Because she was worried she wouldn’t like her cooking. Sasha nearly screamed the house down.”

He chuckled. “I think I would’ve, too.”

“Yeah, I get it too.” Beth shrugged. “The people here are nice, like, really nice, but… they are weak. This place isn’t real.”

Carl nodded. He had thought the same thing. For a moment, they were quiet.

“Hey, did you dream anything?”

“What?” He stared at Beth in utter confusion.

The girl shrugged. “There’s that superstition that whatever you dream in a new place becomes reality.”

“Oh. Uhm, no. Nothing.”  
“That’s good.” She smiled, but it didn’t quite reached her eyes. “I had a nightmare on my first night. Woke up screaming bloody murder. I still get them almost every night.”

“What about?”, he asked.

“From the hospital.”

“Hospital?”

Beth nodded. “When Daryl and I were split up, that’s where I ended up. Didn’t your Dad tell you?”  
“He told me you were with a group and that they got you back.”

“That’s the rough cut, then.”

She played with the tip of her blonde ponytail. Carl cleared his throat.

“Grady Memorial”, she said, finally. “There were some former cops there, and a doctor. They tried to maintain normality in there, just like the people here. Well, not exactly like the people here, but…” She shuddered. “They said they saved me, so I owed them. That I had to work off my dept. I was a… not a nurse, but something like that, I guess. “

She took a breath. “They made me hold a woman down as they sawed off her arm… without anaesthetic. There was a man there, one of the police men, who… who tried… who did...”

She shook her head. “It’s not that important.”

She didn’t have to say anything else. Carl knew.

“Me too”, he said, quietly. “Someone… did something with me, too, I mean.”

Beth looked at him for a long moment.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

She breathed out a laugh. “Out of all things we could have had in common, it had to be _that_ , huh?”

“Yeah. Fucked up.”

“Totally.”

For a while, they just sat there in comfortable silence.

“Hey, did you meet the other kids yet?”, Beth asked, finally. Carl shook his head.

“School’s over by now. D’you wanna meet them?”

“School?!”

She rolled her eyes. “Apparently part of maintaining normality around here is that they make the kids go to school. It’s just a former geography teacher and some old books in a garage, really. I only went once.”  
She started climbing down the ladder. After a second, Carl followed.

They walked over to a house close to their two.

“That’s Pete and Jessie’s place”, Beth said. “You know, Pete, the doctor.”

Carl nodded.

Beth knocked on the door. A woman with blonde hair opened.

“Beth, hi! And you must be Carl then.”

“Hi, Jessie”, Beth said. “Is Ron here?”

“Oh, yeah, he’s upstairs with the others. You can go right up.”

And so they did. Beth had clearly been here before, and she went up the stairs and straight to the last door at the end of the upper hallway. Carl followed.

“Hi, guys!” Beth opened the door wide, stepping in and pulling Carl with her on the wrist. He looked around. Posters on the walls, a TV with consoles hooked onto it, a dresser, a bed with bright green bedding. A girl sat on the bed and was reading a comic, and two boys were going through a few video games on front of the TV.   
“Hello Beth!”, one of them said. “And… sorry, who are you?”

“That’s Carl, he’s Rick’s son”, Beth said. Her smile seemed a bit fake, a bit too cheery. “Carl, this is Mickey, and that’s Ron.”  
The two boys greeted him with small waves and “Hey”s.

“And that’s Enid”, Ron, the taller, lankier of the two said, pointing at the girl. Enid didn’t even look up from her comic as she threw a two-fingered salute in their general direction.

“How was Ron’s place?”, Michonne asked when Carl came back home after a few hours.

“Okay.” He sat down on the couch next to her. She was giving Judith her bottle.

“Doesn’t sound that great. Anything happen?”  
“Not really.” He kicked off his shoes, pulled his knees up to his chest. “I like it here, I think I like the people, but… I don’t want to get weak in here.”

“Some of us had the same concern”, Michonne told him. “Your Dad said that we don’t have that in us anymore. I think he’s right.”

“Maybe.” Carl picked up a plush orang-utan from the floor and handed it to Judith. She gurgled happily and hugged the orange ape to her chest.

“Where is Dad, anyways?”

Michonne sighed, ran her hand over her face. “He’s gone to Jessie’s.”  
“Why?”

What he really asked was _why does this annoy you? Why don’t you agree with this?_ Because it was obvious from her body language that she did not agree with it.

“Carol’s been suspecting something for a while. Pete… he beats his wife, and Ron, too. I don’t think he’s hurt Sam, the younger one, yet, but…”

“But it’s only a matter of time.”  
“Exactly.”

Suddenly, there was shouting outside. Carl was sure he could make out a man yelling for Deanna, and shattering glass. Michonne got up and, with Judith on her arm, ran out the door, Carl right behind her.

On the road, a few metres down from them, in front of Jessie’s house, there were two men wrestling on the concrete. Michonne swore, quickly handed Judith to Beth, who just came up their porch, and ran towards them. Carl followed suit.

Glenn and a young man Carl thought was Deanna’s son came running from the gates, hell, people came running from all sides. Pete was kneeling on top of Rick, squeezing his neck with both hands, Carl jumped forward but Jessie was faster, she grabbed her husband’s arm and tried to pull him off the other man – Pete punched her without even looking and she stumbled backwards – Carl rushed forward just as his Dad managed to get the upper hand and turn them both around, now he was sitting on Pete’s chest, pressing one arm against his throat – Carl grabbed his Dad’s arm and pulled with all his power, shouting: “Dad, get off!” – and received a blow against the chest that sent him stumbling – someone reached out and helped him to his feet – he could see his Dad’s face now, smeared with blood as he turned sideways, choking Pete with one arm, he didn’t even seem to hear his son and Michonne and Glenn and Maggie yell for him to stop, stop, fucking –

“Stop it!” Deanna was out of breath. “Stop it right now, she demanded.

“You touch them again”, Rick hissed, loud enough for them all to hear. “And I’ll kill you!”

“Dammit, Rick, I said stop!”

Glenn and the other man moved to pull the two men apart, but in one swift motion, Rick pulled out the gun he had carried around with him.

“Or what?”, he asked.

Carl froze. Everyone else did, too, for a moment, before backing away from the drawn weapon.

“You wanna kick me out?”, his Dad asked, and he wasn’t even yelling, he just talked in a slightly raised, slightly shrill voice, still on his knees, full of blood, pointing the gun at this person first, then that other guy, panting – “Put that gun down, Rick”, Deanna said, slowly, reasonably.

“Dad, put it _down_!”, Carl hissed from the other side.

And he did – only to lift it again the second after, turning his torso around. “You still don’t get it!”, and now he _was_ yelling. “None of you do! We know what needs to be done and we do it! We’re the ones who live! You! You just sit around, plan, hesitate!”

He pointed the gun at Deanna. “You pretend like you know, but you don’t!”  
From afar, they could hear Walkers snarling, and the small _pfjoof_ of silenced gunshots from the watchtower.

“You wish things weren’t what they are! Well, d’you wanna live? You want this place stay standing? Your way of doing things is done! Things don’t get better because, ‘cause you, you want them to! Starting right now, we have to live in the real world!”

His father looked and sounded like a maniac, kneeling in front of them, gesticulating around with a loaded gun and covered in blood.

“We have to control who lives here!”  
Deanna didn’t even flinch. “That’s never been more clear to me than right now”, she said.

“Me?” Rick pointed at his own chest, breathy laughter between the words. “Me, uh, me, me? You mean me?!”

Carl bit down on his teeth and clenched his hands into fists, his left wrist protesting painfully. He looked over to Michonne.

“Your way is gonna destroy this place!”, Rick said, and he was shaking and his voice was merely more than a whisper, and Carl knew that that was worse, way worse than yelling. “You’re gonna get people killed, you already got people killed, you – If you don’t fight, you die! And I’m not gonna stand by–“  
 _Whack!  
_ Michonne had stricken Rick over the back of the head. Like a sawed-off tree, he fell over and didn’t get up. Michonne knelt down and picked up the gun, making sure it was secured before shoving it into her belt. Her face was absolutely furious.


	12. Another night in court

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends!  
> Another week, another chapter - the last one before Christmas, probably. I have a very important presentation next thursday and generally a lot of uni-stuff and pre-Christmas / pre-Yule things to do, so I'm afraid you will have to wait until after christmas for the next chapter. I'm sorry, but I'm sure you'll understand :D  
> As always, I thrive on hearing from you lot - I'm again and again blown away by all of your kindness. Love ya tons!  
> Have a very merry Christmas/Yule if you celebrate it - and to any Jewish people who might be reading: Hanukkah Sameach! Chag Urim Sameach! (I'm not sure which one is more appropriate to say so I put in both to make sure)  
> Love, Lotta

He would never forget what had happened. He just knew he wouldn’t. Nobody here would, except maybe Judith. Not for the first time, he envied his baby sister.

After Michonne had knocked Rick out, they had brought him into the cellar under Deanna and Reg’s house that served as a prison of sorts for the night. They had patched him up, taped over the small cuts from the window glass, and Michonne had sat in there with him the whole night. She hadn’t allowed Carl to stay with her. He wasn’t even mad at her for that. He hadn’t ever been scared of his Dad before.

He did, in part, agree with him of course. The Alexandrians were weaker than them, they didn’t know things, they _needed_ them. Once his Dad came back home, the day after, Carl had told him as much. “But you’ve got to talk to them. You can’t just run around and frighten them, threaten them or whatever.”

He had thought of Damien, who had only been obedient to Viola out of fear.

“I did tell them.”  
“You need to tell them in a way that they can hear and understand!”

“I don’t know if they can.”

Had his father always been so stubborn? Probably. He just hadn’t noticed it before.

“They can”, he’d told him, confidently. He didn’t even know why he had been so confident. Somehow he just knew. Or maybe he wanted to know it, anyways. 

“Does that scare you?”, Rick had asked. What he really meant was _do I scare you_.

“Mostly for them”, Carl had said, almost honestly. “You have to tell them.”

His Dad had sighed, then nodded in agreement.

Pete had been moved into another house to keep Jessie, Ron and Sam safe.

They had decided on holding a meeting to discuss what would happen next. What would happen to Rick.

Night fell. They’d lit a fire, and gathered all around it. Carl had stood next to Beth, who gave him an encouraging smile that didn’t really work at all. His Dad hadn’t shown up yet.

They’d said their pieces. Carol, Maggie, Abraham, Beth, Rosita. Carl did, too.

And then, finally, Rick had shown up. Covered in blood, carrying a dead Walker over one shoulder. Fuck. There had been a Walker inside of Alexandria and none of them had noticed. Gabriel had been outside and he hadn’t closed the gate. It had gotten in, and Rick had taken care of them.

“There was no guard at the door”, he had yelled. Deanna’s son, the younger one, had run to close the gate.

“I didn’t let that one in here, it came on its own! That’s how it will always be, the dead and the living, and the people outside and inside, and the ones outside will always come and hunt us down and try to use us.”

He had taken a moment to breathe. “But they won’t kill us. We will survive, I can show you how! You’re gonna change. I’m not sorry for what I said yesterday, I’m just sorry I didn’t do it earlier, because you’re not ready, and luck runs out.”

Silence.

“You’re not one of us! You’re not one of us!”

Pete had stormed into the meeting, armed with Michonne’s sword that he’d clearly stolen from their place. Reg had tried to stop him, to convince him of going back, and had been met with the blade through the throat.

Carl would never forget Deanna’s panic screams, how she had yelled “My love, my love, no, my love” while hell broke loose, while Abraham had thrown Pete to the ground, holding his arms – “It is him, it’s him, his fault!” Pete had yelled, over and over again – Beth next to him had looked like she was about to keel over, tears in her round eyes – and then Deanna had looked up at Rick, and had uttered two tiny words: “Do it.”

And with a shot thundering through the night, it had been over.

There was smoke in the air and screaming. They had come out of nowhere, all out of a sudden, killing people left or right, there were burning bodies on the ground.

Carol had left him and Beth alone at the house, to keep Judith safe. Beth was upstairs with the baby girl and a handgun, while Carl stayed downstairs, with a rifle. His heart was thumbing like mad. Part of him wanted to run outside, to help, to do something other than stand here, out of sight of the windows and _wait_ –

The door. There was something rattling at the door!

Carefully, he crept around the corner, one finger on the trigger… he could see a shadow on the wall, distorted through the blinds, the door opened, he stepped forth and –

“Hi.” Enid seemed more confused at the gun pointed at her than anything else. Carl swore.

“Why didn’t you, like, knock or something?” He locked the door.

“I had those.” The girl handed him a thick bundle of keys. “Figured it was best they don’t get them.”

“Good thinking.” He shoved them into his pocket and resumed his guard position from before, pulling Enid with him.

“Watch the backdoor”, he told her. “Tell me if you see them coming.”

“I didn’t plan to stay, you know?” Enid crossed her arms. “A bunch of our people are out there, with the quarry and all.”

“Yeah, well, and nobody planned on Alexandria getting attacked today, but here we are.” It came out much harsher than he had meant it.

“They’re not getting inside of this house”, he said. “They are not getting any of us.”

Enid sighed, but she sat down on the floor, back to back with him, and drew her knife.

“This place is too big to protect”, she said, quietly. “There are too many blindspots.”

“Yeah.”

It was true, so why should he deny it? In his mind, he went through all that had happened the past few days. They had disposed of Pete’s body, had buried Reg. They had enforced the walls and built watchposts. They had found the quarry nearby filled with Walkers, a gigantic herd, and had come up with a plan for that whole thing, but maybe, they wouldn’t need it after all. Not if those crazy people murdered them before that. No. That wouldn’t happen. Carl took a deep breath. That wouldn’t happen.

“If needs be, we’ll kill them.”

“Yeah. If needs be.”

Enid sounded bitter. Carl didn’t blame her.

Over the past week and a half that he had been in Alexandria, out of all people he had spent the most time with Beth and Enid. The girls seemed to like each other, and the three of them had a hobby of sorts in common. Together, almost every day, they went outside, over the walls, and they hunted. For Walkers.

Or sometimes, they didn’t hunt. They just watched. Enid had a large supply of small egg timers that she used to draw Walkers away sometimes – she put them on the shortest time setting and threw them as far away as she could. And while the Walker – usually there was just one at a time around here – would try to follow the shrill ringing, the three of them would run the other direction. It was fun, oddly enough. It felt good to be a bit childish every now and then. Wasn’t like they got to do that very often anymore.

Carl sighed.

They waited in silence. Outside, they could hear the tumult go on. Even with all the windows closed, Carl was sure he could smell the smoke. He wondered how Carol was doing out there. Knowing her, well enough.

From somewhere, there was a loud crash and then a horn signal that didn’t stop.

“Oh crap”, Enid whispered.

“Yeah.”

The Walkers all around would hear that. They would hear it and come.

_Oh crap_ , indeed. He grabbed the rifle a bit tighter.

After what could have been either minutes or hours, Beth came down the stairs, Judith propped up on her hip. “Ron is out there”, she whispered. Carl swore and got to his feet, moving closer to the door. Yes, there he was, leaning against a tree… and then he was running, and one of the invaders followed. Carl yanked the door open and fired a shot.

The invader slumped over, rolling around on the ground in pain, holding onto his leg. Carl moved down the steps, his weapon still at the ready.

“Fuck, shit!”, the invader howled. “Please, man, please – you can’t kill me! You can’t kill me! Please!”  
For a brief moment, Carl thought about it. It wasn’t more than a second, but the invader used it, he jumped up, grabbed the rifle – Carl pulled the trigger.

Ron stared at him.

“Come inside”, Carl said. “You’ll be safe there.”

The other boy spat at him and walked past.

“Carl!”, Enid yelled from the porch. Carl swore again under his breath and went back inside. Beth had gone back upstairs.

“He’s gonna do something stupid”, Enid whispered.

“Well, if he does, I tried to help.” Carl sat back down. “Not my fault if he gets himself killed.”

It was bitter, but in the end it was true.

“I can’t stay here”, Enid whispered. “You can keep the place safe on your own.”

“Enid, no!”  
“I have to go, okay? Glenn, and –“

Carl wanted to tell her No. He wanted to stop her, but he knew he couldn’t. He didn’t know much about Enid, but he knew enough.

“Fine. Be safe.”

“Just survive somehow.” Enid jumped to her feet and was out the door before Carl could ask what the hell that meant.

Enid was right, of course. More than two thirds of them were out there, trying to lure the herd out of the quarry. His Dad, Michonne, Glenn, Daryl, Sasha, Abraham, many more. It wasn’t like he didn’t worry, but right now, he was of best use right where he was.

But if Enid wanted to go out to help them, he couldn’t stop her.

In the kitchen, the egg timer rang. He got up, turned it off and pulled the casserole out of the oven that Carol had put in there right before the invaders had shown up.

Hours went by. In his mind, he made up horror scenario after horror scenario, imagines about five hundred ways that things could go south. He didn’t leave his post. He sat on the ground with his rifle, biting his lip raw. He knew that Beth was sitting upstairs and probably felt the exact same way he did. He wondered if Enid had made it out, and if so, where she was now.

He hated waiting.

He hated not knowing.

He sat still.

Outside, the horn had stopped.

He ran a finger all along his wrist bandage. He didn’t need to wear it anymore, the new doctor, Denise, had told him. The sprain wasn’t completely healed yet, but the bandage wasn’t necessary either. Slowly, he started chewing at the knot until he could start unravelling it.

Carol came to get him. Alexandria was clear, but there were bodies in the streets, and blood. He helped clean it up, throw all of them on a pile, puncture their heads if it hadn’t been done before. Some of the bodies were dismembered. There were blood puddles all over the place. He helped get water from the well and pour it over the disgusting red marks.

Some of the people involved in the quarry plan returned. With them came half the herd. Things clearly hadn’t gone as planned. They reinforced the wall plate that had been hit by the large truck – that was where the blaring horn had come from.

They dug graves. Buried their dead. Wrote their names onto the walls. Carl faltered when he saw Maggie write down _Glenn_ below _Nicholas_.

Dammit.

He walked around, sort of aimlessly. His father’s speech and the new plan echoed around in his head. Outside the walls, the Walkers were snarling. When he walked past the Anderson house, he was Ron sit in front of it, jabbing his knife into the grass again and again.

“You okay?”, he asked.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You didn’t see Enid come back, did you?”

One could hope.

“Didn’t see her since you two were together.”

Carl sighed. “She left to help the others.”

“I guess she’s dead then.”

Carl rolled his eyes. “C’mon, man, you don’t really believe that, right?”

Ron just stared at him.

“Look, I’m going out to look for her”, Carl said. “You should come too. She’s _your_ girlfriend.”

“She was, anyway, right?” Ron jumped to his feet, still staring him angrily in the eye. “I told her a hundred times not to go over the wall, there’s bad people out there, and it’s dangerous. She wouldn’t listen!”  
“She knows what she’s doing, okay?” God, Carl couldn’t believe this guy. “And so do I.”

“Well, I won’t let you go.”

Carl actually laughed at that. “What?”

“I won’t let you!”

“Yeah, whatever.” He turned around and walked off. Ron followed, yelling his name.

“Dude, just… back off, okay?”

“No, I’m not letting you go out there!” Ron grabbed him by the shirt, and Carl gave him a short, strong push against the chest. “I said, back off!”

Ron had fallen over, on his back, and coughed. Carl scoffed and turned around.

“I’ll tell your Dad!”, Ron threatened. “He’ll come after you, and then other people will, and they will all die and it will be your fault.”

Carl kept walking.

“You saved my life!”, Ron yelled after him. “Now I’m saving yours!”

Yeah, sure. Whatever.

He went to the paddock. Buttons and Morticia were nervous as hell, understandably, but they were okay and they hadn’t run, so kudos to them or whatever. Carl did his best to calm them down and gave them half an apple each as a treat.

Morticia affectionately nudged him in the side.

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop that?”

She huffed and nudged his other side.

“You’re impossible.”

A while ago, a few days after she had come to Alexandria, Enid had repaired a cross-country bike and hidden in in the woods. Not, that came in handy. It was much faster than walking.

After she had tracked down the routes she knew their people would have taken, and found nothing, she made her way to the town. Well, town was relative, it was a few old buildings, fences, warehouses and containers all over the place, but what the hell, it was a nodal point and she had a good feeling about it.

She hoped everybody else would be okay, back home.

_Home_.

She hadn’t thought she’d ever use that word again. After she had seen her parents get killed and eaten by living corpses, she had been alone. For a long-ass time. She had left little sign everywhere, formed with pebbled or sticks or written in the dust or formed with small tortoise bones. J.S.S. _Just survive somehow_. It had become her motto. Hell, she had scratched those three letters onto her dirty hand before entering Alexandria. It felt desperate and weak, but she wouldn’t have made it without leaving those letters everywhere.

When she had first set foot into Alexandria, she hadn’t thought it would be for long. She had already written society off as lost forever. She had thought that everyone who believed that they could hold on to the world that had been was stupid and would die sooner or later, and she still thought so in part, but she had learned a lot since joining the community.

Somehow, she had stayed there for a week, then two. She decided to stay for as long as the place held up, and to leave when things got ugly.

Getting together with Ron hadn’t been her choice. The boy had assumed things and Enid hadn’t corrected him. She didn’t speak a lot either way.

Her days were simpler, now. She had food, clothes, water, shelter. That was nice, sure, even though it couldn’t last.

She still went out, almost every day. Because she couldn’t let herself forget, or get too comfortable. Besides that, she helped out when it was needed, read comics, played video games with the boys and made out with Ron when he initiated it. It wasn’t terrible, and it made time go by faster. But it wasn’t like she actually liked the guy.

Enid shook her head and focussed on her goal again.

Get to the town. Find someone, anyone. It was getting dark already.

Once she reached her destination, she dropped her bike and, with some difficulty, found a building that wasn’t locked. It was empty, no dead things, nothing. She made her way upwards, found a room she could lock and barricaded the door. For the night, this would do.

She had protein bars and three bottles of water in her backpack.

It was dark outside.

For the night, this would do. And tomorrow, she would go looking for the others.

She slept until dawn. Then, she ate, drank, did whatever she needed to do and found a way to the roof. Up was always good. 

She walked over the first roof, then climbed over to the next. And the next. Always along the edge, always peering out… and spotted movement in a back alley.

She froze, but then she noticed who it was.

“Glenn!”

The man looked up. “Enid?”

“Heads up!” And she threw down one of the water bottles from her backpack. Glenn caught it and emptied it in one big gulp.

Then, she waited for Glenn to find a way up to her.

“What are you doing out here?”, Glenn asked. She rolled her eyes. “Saving you, obviously.”

She handed him another water bottle.   
“What happened in Alexandria?”, Glenn asked when he had finished it.

“Some weird people attacked us. They drove a truck into the wall. They should all be dead by now.”

“What about the herd?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t see them. I dunno.”  
Glenn nodded. “Do you know if my wife is okay? Maggie?”

“Last time I saw her she was okay.” Enid shrugged and closed the zipper of her backpack. “Is anyone else here?”

“No. Nicholas was, but… no.”

“Okay.” She turned around. “Let’s go, idiot! We don’t have all day!”

The day went by, and then came night. The next day, they trained together, for whatever they needed to do. There were walkers at their gates. Carl found himself staring at the wall, wondering how Enid would make it back over.

If she was still alive. Scratch that. She _was_ still alive.

They reinforced the walls. Did what they could.

“It’s not enough”, Beth said, quietly. She was working right next to Carl.

He shook his head. “I don’t think it is.”

“My sister washed Glenn’s name off the wall.”

“Maybe we’ll have to write it back up.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I’m being realistic.”

“Fair.”  
They kept working.

Spencer tried making it over the wall and the mass of Walkers and to a car. They had to save his ass.

They kept working. Until –

“Look!”, Rosita called, and pointed up. Carl leaned back, peered up at the sky, and saw a thick bundle of green balloons float through the cloudless blue sky.

Maggie came running, shouting: “Glenn! That’s Glenn!”

“And Enid, maybe”, Beth whispered.

In that moment, there was a deafening cracking, and then, like a card house, the watchtower fell. And it tore down the walls.

Carl grabbed Beth’s hand and started running.

Maggie escaped to one of their watchposts. Morgan and Carol ran over to the armoury. Out of the corner of his eye, Carl saw his Dad, Ron and Deanna, the latter supported by his Dad, surrounded by Walkers, and then Jessie was there with a gun, and then the path was clear, and they all ran to the Anderson house.

Deanna had been bit. Carl couldn’t do anything but stare and watch Michonne do her best to patch the older woman up. Upstairs, he could hear Jessie yell at Sam to lock himself in his room.

There was a knock at the door. Carl looked, and opened when he saw that it was Beth and Judith.

“I’ve got her, it’s okay, she’s okay”, the older girl whispered, and helped him barricade the door.

Then, he went to look for Ron. He found him in the garage, slumped over a workbench. 

“You okay, man?”

“Enid’s dead”, the other boy mumbled. “We’re all dead.”

“We’ll figure something out. We always do. My Dad does.”

“Bullshit!” Ron turned around. “Your Dad kills people, that’s who he is, he’s a killer.”

“Like yours then.” Carl crossed his arms. “We’ll figure-“

“I’m already dead, Carl. My Mom too. My little brother…”

“No, we’re not.”

“You, your Dad, your baby sister, Beth…”

“For fucks sake, pull yourself together!” Carl really, really couldn’t deal with this shit now. “We’re not dead yet, but if you keep screaming around, we will be, so shut up and do what I say, okay?”

Ron stared at him, stunned.

“Okay. Now, we go back to the others, we barricade the doors and figure out a plan.”

Carl sighed, then turned around and left. Ron followed.

Together with Jessie and his Dad, they grabbed the sofa and pushed it in front of the garage door.

“There’s a dresser in my Mom’s room”, Ron mumbled. “We could brace it against the…”

“Perfect.” Carl grabbed him by the arm and pulled him up the stairs. 

“Listen”, Ron said, as they entered. “I, uh…”

Carl closed the door and pulled out the gun he had gotten accustomed to carrying. He’d gotten quite good at aiming again, even with one eye missing. And now he pointed it at Ron.

“Hand me your gun, grip first.”

Ron stared. He was really good at staring.

“I know you have it, and I don’t trust you with it as long as you are pulling that suicidal bullshit”, Carl said. “You took it after we trained this morning. Give it here.”

“Carl, I… I’m sorry…”  
“Yeah, I know. Give it here.”

Carl yanked the gun from Ron’s hand and shoved it into his belt.

“See, that wasn’t so hard. You can get it back if you behave.”

And they grabbed the dresser.

Deanna was dying. She had given Michonne her plans for the future of Alexandria. She had given Rick some letters for Maggie, and Spencer. She had looked at Judith one last time.

It felt like a graveyard already. All gloomy and sad.

Gabriel had joined them, holding a machete – he had been a bit of a whimp when Carl had first started teaching him, but he held it correctly by now, so that was good news. Somehow.

The Walkers had taken the ground floor of the Anderson house, and now they were barricaded upstairs.

“We need weapons”, Carl said. His Dad nodded, grabbed one of the two Walkers he had killed and dragged upstairs, and took out his knife.

“We’ll go to the armoury.”

“How?”, Jessie asked.

“We’ll gut these”, Rick said. “It will disguise us and we can leave.”

Carl nodded and grabbed the sheets from the bed, tearing it apart for makeshift ponchos to drape the Walker guts over.

Michonne left to talk to Deanna again. Gabriel cradled Judith against his chest. Beth helped Carl tear the sheets, and pillowcases and any big piece of fabric she could find. Jessie went to get Sam.

Beneath them, the Walkers got louder. Michonne returned, and helped Carl with the guts. Then, Gabriel handed him Judith, and Carl hid her under his poncho. She snuggled closer to his chest, not making a single sound, as if she knew what was at stake.

They grabbed each other by the hand and walked downstairs, wading through the mass of Walkers and out the door.

It was drizzling outside. Not real rain, just a fine spray that seeped into every pore. The sun was setting already.

“New plan”, Rick whispered once they had made it out. “We’re not going to the armoury. Too many Walkers, too spread out, not enough flare guns. We need our vehicles from the quarry. We need to round them up.”

“Okay”, Jessie said, and then: “What about Judith? To the quarry and back, I…”

“I’ll take her”, Gabriel offered. “I’ll keep her safe at the church until you come back.”

“Can you?”, Michonne asked.

“I have to”, the priest said. Carl nodded, and carefully handed his baby sister to him. The man covered her with his gut-covered poncho. “I am keeping her safe”, he promised again, and Carl whispered a “Thank you.”

The sky grew darker. Night fell, slowly but surely. They kept going, equally slowly. Carl kept looking around, making sure everyone was okay, and safe.

Until suddenly, Sam stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the Walkers.

“Sam?”, Jessie whispered.

“Sam, Sam you can do this”, Beth said, and “Look at Mom, okay?”, came it from Ron.

“Honey, look at me, you gotta be strong!”

“Sam, come on!”

Ron and Beth and Jessie all tried to persuade the boy to move, but he wouldn’t budge, and then the Walkers were there to feast.

Jessie screamed.

Carl tried pulling her with him, her hand was clamped around his wrist, but she didn’t let go, and didn’t move, just staring at her son – “Jessie!”, his Dad whispered.

“Come, you gotta come with us!”, Carl hissed. The woman was still screaming.

“Come on, we have to go!”

The Walkers dug in.

Carl tried to pull himself loose of her hand, but he couldn’t.

“Dad!”, he hissed. “Dad!”

Beth jumped forward and hacked down with a small hand-axe, cutting Jessie’s hand clean off. Carl stumbled backwards, against Ron, and then against his Dad, slowly he came back to his feet – and then he heard a clicking noise.

Ron had gotten the gun out of his belt and now aimed at Rick.

“You”, the boy whispered. “You!”

“Don’t be dumb!”, Carl hissed.

Michonne drew her sword. Ron pulled the trigger.

The blade went straight through Ron’s torso. Carl caught Beth as she fell and pushed one arm under her knees, scooping her up with some difficulty.

“Infirmary”, he said, not even waiting for his father’s response, he just ran. He knew that his father and Michonne would take care of the Walkers.

Beth was a bit taller than him and probably weighed about the same as he did, but somehow he managed to carry her almost the entire way. When he got close, the door of the infirmary already opened, and Aaron ran out to help him.

“Was that a gunshot?”, Denise asked, already grabbing supplies and giving orders.

“Pistol, close range.” Carl laid Beth down on the gurney Spencer had pushed in position, grabbed a towel and pressed it down on the wound, trying to stop the blood flow.

Denise readied an IV and disinfectant.

“I can take over”, Aaron said. “They need you back outside, Carl!”

Carl nodded. “Okay. Here, you got it? Good.”

And he turned on his heel, spurting out. Spencer followed him, as did Eric.

They plunged into battle.

Time became a blur. At some point, Carl heard a rapid gunshot fire from the gates, and then, suddenly, the night became bright as day, and the lake was on fire… how the hell was that possible?!

The bright shine drew the Walkers in like moths.

“Go get them!”, someone yelled, and with newfound energy, they got to work, stabbing heads and dismembering bodies as they walked past them, towards the fire.

By morning, the air was still filled with grey smoke, and the roads were full with corpses and blood.

The fire had been Daryl, Abraham and co, it turned out. They had brought an oil truck and lit the lake aflame with a flame thrower. A risky, but solid plan.

Enid had found Glenn and brought him back. When he saw her, Carl more or less fell into her arms.

“Oh my god, you’re okay”, he whispered.

“Stop being so dramatic”, the girl said, but she had tear tracks on her face that gave the lies to her words.

It was a new day, and most of them were still alive.


	13. The prosecution rests

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!   
> I hope you guys had a good Christmas (or whatever other holiday you celebrate) and a good New Years Eve!   
> I will have a ton of Uni-Work to do in January, so I fear I might not be able to update again until the end of the month (or to read any fanfics either, unfortunately... urgh), so I wanted to at least give you one new Chapter at the beginning. 
> 
> WARNING: This chapter contains a scene in which a character experiences a mild panic attack. I wrote it pretty vaguely, but please proceed with caution if this is in any way mentally triggering for you. 
> 
> As always, I hope to hear from you and what you thought about the chapter!   
> Love you all!  
> Lotta

There was music coming from the boxes of the car CD player, some horrible country-like stuff. Rick grinned at Daryl’s frustrated “Don’t, don’t, please don’t” and turned the volume up loud.

“Draws ‘em away from home”, he said, and gave gas.

They left behind a peaceful Alexandria in the morning sun.

In the passenger seat, Daryl ran a hand over his face. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t!”

“Yeah I do.”

“You could never hate me.” But Rick was merciful and lowered the volume by a little bit.

Daryl just gave him a stink-eyed look and leaned back in his seat.

Rick chuckled and pulled out the list with one hand, keeping the other on the steering wheel. “Let’s see what we need…”

And they drove.

They’d been doing supply runs like this for months now. Two people at a time, one car, one long list, a map with stops that Eugene and Rosita had drawn in with crosses. Red was agricultural and gardening stuff, blue was gas or electrical supplies, black was clothes, toys etc. and purple was food or water. It was a good system. It worked.

They managed to get to an abandoned storage barn that was, to their luck, Walker-free. Inside was a white truck that was loaded with supplies.

“Law of averages”, Rick said, with a small grin. Daryl rolled his eyes.

The law of averages – the belief that an event, like finding people to bring to their colony or finding an unplundered storage, would occur over certain periods of time at a frequency similar to its probability – was something Rick had grown to love to reference, partially because he actually believed it to be true, and partially because it annoyed his partner devilishly.

They left their car behind and got in the truck, and got on their way. They drove, this time without the soundtrack of horrendous country music, until they passed a small gas station. It hadn’t been marked on their map, but Daryl demanded Rick to stop.

He got out and went over to a turned-over vending machine that was laying on the ground.

“Gimme a hand?”, he asked.

“That’s just expired candy and soda”, Rick said. “Why the trouble?”

“No trouble.” Daryl shrugged. “Denise asked me a favour.”

And so, they tried – and failed – to turn the vending machine over. Until Daryl had the idea to chain it onto their truck and pull it over like that, at least.

They bent down to open the chains again – and something hit Rick from behind. He shoved whatever it was back and drew his gun, Daryl doing the same – two pistol barrels pointed at a man with a beanie, long hair, a black leather coat and a once-white scarf over his mouth and nose.

The man raised his arms. “Hi.”

“Back up! Now!”, Daryl barked, and “keep your hands up”, demanded Rick.

“Whoa! Easy, guys! I was just runnin’ from the dead.”

Daryl narrowed his eyes. “How many?”

The man shrugged. “Ten? Maybe more. I'm not risking it. Once it gets to double digits, I start running.”

“Where?”, Daryl asked.

“About a half a mile back. They're headed this way, you probably have

about 11 minutes.”

Rick nodded and lowered his gun. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Daryl mimic him.

“Okay, thanks for letting us know.”

The man laughed. “Yeah, well… there’s more of them than us, right? Gotta stick together. Right?”

Rick offered a small nod.

“You have a camp?”, the man asked.

Daryl shook his head. “Nah. Do you?”

“No. Well… Sorry for running into you. I'm gonna go now.” He shrugged and turned around, walking off. “If this is the next world, I hope it's good to you guys!”

“Wait!”

The man stopped.

“I'm Rick. This is Daryl. What's your name?”

The man turned around again, slowly pulling down the white fabric scraps.”

“Paul Rovia”, he said. “But, uh… my friends used to call me Jesus. Your pick.”

Daryl scoffed.

Rick looked at the guy in detail. He had a beard that looked well-kept, he was clean, his clothes were in good condition.

“You said you didn't have a camp”, he said, slowly. “You on your own?”

“Yeah. But, still, best not to try anything.”

“Best not to make threats you can't keep, either”, Daryl snarled.

The man – Rovia – offered a small smirk. “Exactly.”

Rick made a quick descision. “How many Walkers…”

“No, not that guy”, Daryl whispered under his breath. Rick ignored him.

“How many Walkers have you killed?”, he called, but the guy was already jogging off and around the corner.

“Sorry, gotta run! You should, too! You've got about seven minutes.”

The morning was still a bit cold, and there was mist creeping over the ground and between the trees. Everything was dead silent, apart from the thumping rhythm of hooves on the ground. No, that wasn’t true. There were all kinds of small sounds – insects and birds and small critters in the underwood. But the point was, there were no other people making a sound. That was basically the same thing as silent to him. 

He had been outside since dawn – hadn’t been able to sleep very well – and he’d figured there were better things to do than mope around at home. He had done his chores, the ones he could do without waking everybody around him anyhow, and then he had gotten Morticia. The horse had been up as well, and very excited to do something. And so, they had gone out. And now, a few hours later, there were a rabbit and a fat pheasant tied to the back of the saddle. A good catch for a sleepy morning.

Elegantly, his horse moved through the thicket and around trees. The wind of moving so fast swept the hair out of his face, and got into his clothes.

He loved this.

Still, he gently pulled on the reins and leaned back, bringing Morticia down to a much slower pace.

“Good girl.”

He pat her neck and clicked his tongue, steering Morticia out of the trees and back onto the road in front of the main gate. He pulled out his machete, just in case – they had put up Walkers between car wrecks in front of Alexandria to keep people at a distance, since it was a bit hard to navigate a vehicle through the pathway and even though they were usually impaled on the spikes they had put up, but every now and then, they could pull free. Best not to take chances.

The gate was pulled open and he rode in. Michonne was there to greet him back.

“Hey.”

“Hello.” Carl jumped down and once again pat Morticia on the neck as a small praise before tying the wild catches free. “Look.”

“Good job. Olivia will be happy.”

He nodded and started taking Morticia back to the paddock.

“You were up early again”, Michonne said, walking beside him.

Oh no. Not this again.

“I know. You were, too.”  
“Not the point here, buddy.”

Carl suppressed a sigh and opened the gate. “In you go.”

“You’ve been talking in your sleep”, Michonne kept going, leaning on the fence.

“A lot of people sleep-talk.” Carl started opening the buckles of the saddle belt, and pulled the heavy piece of leather down, placing it over the fence.

“Stop it!”

Carl got a small towel from the small roofed-over area of the paddock and started brushing Morticia down and drying off the sweat.

“Be honest, Carl. You’ve been having nightmares. Didn’t you?”

He suppressed another sigh. Why did Michonne have to be so perceptive?

“We’ll talk later, okay? I gotta go help Enid.”

Before Michonne could object, he had jumped over the fence and walked off the other direction.

“You're gonna leave me here like this?” Rovia didn’t even seem overly angry or annoyed at his capture, he seemed almost like he _enjoyed_ himself. Daryl wanted to punch him in the face. “You're really gonna do that?”

“Eh… the knots aren't that tight.” Rick pulled the rope even tighter and made sure that all the knots were secure. “You should be able to get free... after we're long gone.”

He got up and walked towards the truck.

“Maybe we should talk now!”, Rovia called out.

“Nah.” Daryl took one of the orange soda cans they’d gotten for Denise and shook it vigorously before tossing it at the guy. “Here. In case you get thirsty.”

Rovia had the audacity to chuckle.

Daryl got in the truck and slammed the door, leaning his head out of the window. “So long, you prick!”

Rick gave gas.

“Still worked out”, he said with a grin and opened a KitKat from the vending machine with his teeth. “Today still is the day.”

Daryl gave an uncommitted grunt and a small sliver of a grin. Rick turned on the CD player. They drove on.

“Hey, look at that”, Rick said, suddenly, pointing ahead.

Daryl looked up. “Hmph. A barn.”

_Thumpk!_

“D’you hear that?” Rick turned the music down.

_Thumpk!_

“That son of a bitch is on the roof!”  
“Hold on…” Rick hit the brakes and the truck came to an abrupt stop. A leather-clad figure fell down right in front of them, and came back to his feet. For a moment, he just looked at them – and then he ran.

Without even thinking, Rick started the truck again and followed.

“Mother-“ Daryl opened the door and just jumped out.

“Daryl! Daryl!”

No use – the hunter was already in pursuit. Rick swore through his teeth and kept driving. Not that it actually helped much, all he could really do was look out the window and watch Daryl and Rovia do their chicken hunt.

No ten minutes later, it was over, and the truck was slowly disappearing in the green water of the lake.

Rovia was on the ground, unconscious.

“You all right?” Rick was still a bit out of breath.   
“Yeah.” Daryl sniffed. “Law of averages. That's bullshit, man.”

Rick didn’t say anything.  
“Let's go check them cars and get the hell out of here”, Daryl suggested.   
Rick pointed his chin an Rovia. “What about the guy?”  
“What about him?”  
“Well… he did help you.”

Daryl scoffed. “Maybe.”  
He sighed, knowing he wouldn’t get anywhere if he kept saying now. “Fine. Let's put him up a tree.”

“Not what I meant, Daryl.”

Another sigh.

“You’re seriously gonna make me take that guy with us?”  
Rick drew out his answer. “Yuuup.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Daryl bent down and put Rovia’s limp body over his shoulders. “Happy now?”  
“Very. Let’s get outta here.”

“I really, really hate you right now.”

“Are you done with the #297?”

“Uh, yeah.” Carl pulled the corresponding comic book – Amazing Spiderman – from the stack to his right and handed it to Enid. “Here ya go.”

“Thanks.” She opened it. “D’you read _Phoenix must die_ yet?”

“Not a huge fan of the X-Men.”

“Your loss.”

Carl made an uncommitted noise and picked up a book titled _Triumph and Torment_.

They’d been doing this for a while now – taking a break from their chores to climb up into the treehouse and read comics. A few months back, Michonne had raided a place with an impressive collection that they had shared evenly. There even were some really old ones from the fifties.

“Hey, quick question”, Enid piped up.

“Huh?”

“Who do you like better, Monica Rambeau or Mar-Vell?”

“Are you kidding?”

“I’m serious!”

“Rambeau, easily!”  
“Really?” Enid breathed a laugh. “I wouldn’t’ve guessed.”

“Okay, I’ve got one for you.” Carl sat up a bit straighter. “Peter Parker or Ben Reilly?”  
“Cassandra Webb.”

He burst out laughing. “Seriously? Did she ever even fight anyone?”  
Enid hit him with a rolled-up comic. “She’s awesome. I stand by that.”

“She is old and blind!”

“She’s got great powers, okay?”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah! Telepathy, clairvoyance, prescience, fricking psychic surgery and astral projection…”  
“Yeah but she still never fought anyone!”

“You’re impossible!” She hit him again with the comic book. He just laughed.

“Hey, you two!”, came a call from the bottom of the tree. It was Maggie. “Enid, I need you help with something real quick!”

“Coming!” Enid shoved her part of the comic book stack into her backpack and started climbing down the rope ladder. Carl stayed, waving her goodbye.

He liked it up here, in the tree. From here, much like from the various watchposts all along the new wall and from the church tower, he could see all of Alexandria. The _new_ Alexandria. They had built it up after the whole debacle with the Walker herd and the collapsed old watchtower. It was bigger now. They had a church now, and they had a large garden with vegetables and fruit trees. They had cleaned and filtered the lake – it hadn’t exactly been in a great shape after they had used it to grill the Walkers – and they had pulled up a new, stronger wall. They had repaired the solar-energy-system, cleared out the sewers. They had made Alexandria a place to live again.

The attack had happened about two years ago, give or take a few days. He wasn’t quite sure, but Michonne and Beth both liked to keep track of it. They counted in _Days Since Shit Hit The Fan_. Their group had arrived in Alexandria on Day 538, Carl had arrived on Day 549. The Invaders with the Ws etched into their skulls had attacked Alexandria on Day 556. Judith had said her first word on Day 580.

_Monkey_. Her first word had been _monkey_.

Apparently unusual first words were a Grimes family thing.

Since then, more than 700 days had passed. Seven-fucking-hundred. That meant they had managed to survive in a world after modern civilization, in a world full of living corpses, for over 1250 days.

That was crazy. Absolutely crazy.

He probably should get going as well. Carl pushed the stack of comics into his backpack and climbed down to the ground and walked over to Carol’s to pick up his sister. Carol had moved out of the joined house a while back and instead lived in one of the new apartments in the Big House. She still took care of Judith every now and then though, which was nice. Carl thought that maybe it made her feel good or useful in some way, being the den mother of Alexandria. Cooking food for anyone who couldn’t, taking care of the younger kids.

He took Judith onto his shoulders and went to work. This was the system they had now, everyone had jobs and chores to do, and for him, that included taking care of his sister – and bringing her with him when he worked on something where she couldn’t get harmed.

Judith babbled happily on his shoulders, telling him about her day with the limited vocabulary of a three-year-old, as they made their way over to the paddock. Buttons and Morticia had a proper open stable now, and a roommate, a goat named Billy. Billy had an attitude-problem and did not get along with Morticia, but was loved by Buttons and by Beth, so he was allowed to stay.

Carl put Judith down on the large food box and started cleaning out the stable and filling up the water trove. He brushed both the horses over, removed loose dirt from Billy’s fur and got himself a lovely bruise on his leg from the goat’s horns, then took Judith by the hand and they walked over to the veggie garden.

Nobody was home yet – he didn’t know where Michonne was, and Daryl and his Dad probably still were on their run. This didn’t surprise him much. While it slowly got dark outside, he cleaned up the toys on the carpet and fixed up some dinner, and about an hour later, he and his sister were outside on the porch, waiting for Michonne, Daryl and Dad.

“Can you show me the north star?”, Carl asked softly. Judith bit her lip, cocked her head and pointed up at the night sky.   
“Very good!” He gently ruffled her hair. “What’s it for?”

“Way-finding!”

“Exactly.”

Judith looked very proud of herself, which didn’t break up even as she took a jaw-splitting yawn.

“Well, someone’s tired.” Michonne came up the porch, her sword slung over her shoulder.

“Yup, she’s been busy terrorizing the town all day.” Carl got up and picked up his sister. “I’m gonna take her in, okay?”

Michonne nodded.

After he had gotten Judith to bed and told her a (very, very quick) story, he went back out to find Michonne sitting in his chair.

“Had a good day?”, she asked.

“I guess so.” He sat down on the railing of the porch. “You?”

“Yeah. Pretty good. But somebody’s been avoiding me all day and I did not like that.”

His ears turned uncomfortably hot. He grimaced.

“I wasn’t… I wasn’t _avoiding_ you, I…”

“You have.”

He crossed his arms, looked down at his feet. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

The chair creaked as she got up. “I just want to know you’re okay, Carl, you know that, right?”

“Yeah…”

The silence was thick enough to slice with a knife.

“I still have nightmares, too”, Michonne said, finally.

He could avoid the conversation again, now. Or he could take the bait. “What about?”

“My son.”

“Your son?”

“He died right after things started.” Michonne took a deep breath. “I was at a refugee camp with him, the dad and my brother. I left them alone for a few hours… when I came back, Walkers had taken the place.”

“I’m sorry.”

When he looked up, he saw that Michonne’s eyes were glistening. “It’s… it’s alright.”  
They both knew it wasn’t.

“What was his name?”  
“André.” Michonne sniffed, and a sad smile curled around her lips. “His name was André.”

“Do Dad and Daryl know?”

“They know about André.” She took a long breath. “They don’t know the whole story.”

Part of him wanted to ask. Part of him really, really didn’t.

“I captured them. My boyfriend and brother. There were high as the sky when it happened and got bit.” She wrapped her arms around her stomach. “I made it so they couldn’t bite or scratch and chained them. I realized they made me invisible to the other Walkers.”

She fell silent again. Carl plucked at his lip and wondered whether or not he should say something.

“I still dream about that. Every few nights. But I’ve had time to heal.”

She looked up at him again. She didn’t ask, didn’t demand anything. She didn’t have to.

Carl sighed. “How much did my Dad tell you… about what happened to me?”

Michonne leaned against the railing next to him. “The rough cut.”

“D-do you know… what they…”

“Yeah.”

Carl swallowed. He started scratching on the back of his hand.

“I… I dreamt I was back there. In the forest. And they…”

It happened in a matter of second. He choked up, his eyes burned and something was stuck in his throat, his knees buckled…

He was panicking. Great.

His mind was like water and cotton and… something soft and chewy… His heart was beating in his ears… that’s not where… that wasn’t…

Breathe. Right. That was a good idea. Breathing.

There was rough painted wood under his fingers, and something hard against his back, he focussed on that.

Inhale, hold, exhale.

The candy floss in his mind melted and he regained vision. He was on the floor, and Michonne was kneeling in front of him, looking at him with wide eyes.

“Can you hear me?”, she asked.

He gave a shaky nod. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“Okay.”

He took another breath, waited until his heart wasn’t beating as hard anymore.

“Do you need something?”, Michonne asked.

“I… can I have a hug?”

Michonne gave him a look and made a small head movement. “C’mere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comic books referenced in this chapter are Uncanny X-Men #137 “Phoenix must die” from 1980, “Doctor Strange & Doctor Doom: Triumph and Torment “ from 1989 and The Amazing Spider-Man 297 from 1963. Since the apocalypse started in ca. 2010 in the TWD universe I basically chose random issues from the pre-90s Marvel comic range - I'm generally more a DC fan but I think Carl only collects Marvel in the series, so yeah, that's why I chose to use Marvel.


	14. The same denial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello folks!  
> I finally have a new chapter for you! I don't know yet when I'll be able to write more because I have a few exams and stuff coming up (including my first ever sign language exam - help), and it's currently easier to write oneshots than chapters of a multi-chapter-fic. So yeah... Anyhow, please let me know what you think, comments and kudos are food for the soul, and stay save, everyone!  
> Loads of love, Lotta

At some point of the night, his Dad and Daryl came back. Carl heard them at the door, heard them in the living room where they talked with Michonne. Heard something vague about a truck and a lake and a guy. He turned around and put his pillow over his head when he heard two of them walk up the stairs.

Eventually, sleep took over.

His dreams took him back to the woods.

There was the clinking of a belt buckle, a zipper being opened, a hand tight in his hair, forcing him to look up, hands on his body and words hissed in his ears.

He woke up with gasp for air.

His heart was beating so hard he thought it would jump out of his chest.

Bile rose up in his throat.

He scrambled out of bed and to the upstairs bathroom.

His eyes burned, his throat burned, his hands clenched around the porcelain edge were trembling and there was hair in his face, and his lips were torn and his nose felt stuffed…

And then it was over, with a last few breathing hitches and hiccups.

He flushed and rinsed his mouth.

Looked at himself in the mirror. Sweaty, hair sticking to his face, bags under his unscarred eye, the socket of the other looking worse in the pale grey-blue morning light.

He wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep now. He knew he wouldn’t. Best to get going…

Something rattled downstairs and Carl froze.

Maybe it was just his Dad, or Michonne or Daryl.

Unlikely – his Dad snored in the big bedroom next door, and he had him and Michonne go upstairs last night, and he knew what that usually resulted in by now. Daryl usually spent _those_ nights downstairs.

He could rule out it being someone else – they would’ve knocked or at least waited until it was a more sensible time of the morning. And if it had been an emergency, they would have made much more noise.

The one creaky step on the stairs made a noise in protest of being stepped on, then there was silence again – then there were footsteps, almost inaudible, whispers he couldn’t make out, and the creaky step again.

Carl took a breath, got his gun from his room – better to be safe than sorry – and crept closer to the stairs.

On the third step sat someone. Dark leather coat, a beanie, long hair.

“What the hell are you doing in our house?”

The intruder didn’t even so much as turn his head at the hissed question and the clicking of a firearm right against his skull.

“I am sitting here… looking at this painting… waiting for your Mom and Dad to get dressed.”

He turned his head, lifted one hand in a lazy salute. “Hi, I’m Jesus.”

The bedroom door opened and his Dad stepped out, only halfway dressed. The same moment, from downstairs came Glenn, Beth, Daryl, Maggie and Abraham, guns drawn and pointing at the intruder.

“It, it’s okay, you guys”, Michonne gave the all-clear.

Rick cleared his throat. “You said we should talk”, he addressed the intruder. “So let’s talk.”

The man got up in one swift motion. “Exactly what I wanted to hear.”

Reluctantly, Carl lowered his gun, still eyeing the stranger suspiciously.   
It turned out that Jesus was the guy he had heard Daryl and his Dad talk about the night before – and he wanted to propose something to the Alexandrians.

“I checked out your arsenal”, he said, leaning back in his chair. “Haven’t seen anything like that in a long time. You're well-equipped, I’ll give you that.”

He pointed at Beth and Carl with two fingers. “Enough that your kids carry arms, too.”  
“We’re not kids”, Beth bit back.

“But you don’t have a lot of edible supplies around, even though you have a large garden.”

“It’s enough for us”, Maggie informed him sharply.

Jesus smiled. “Yeah, but for how long?”

“Would’ve been longer if you hadn’t sent our supply truck into a lake”, Daryl pointed out.

“A fact I am willing to apologize for.” The man took off his beanie, kneading it in his hands. “Look, we got off to a bad start. But we're on the same side... the living side.”

That much was for sure, Carl thought.   
“You and Rick”, Jesus went on, looking at Daryl. “You had every reason to leave me out there, but you didn't. I'm from a place that's a lot like this one. Part of my job is searching out other settlements to trade with.”

He paused.   
“I wanted your truck because my community needs things, and both of you  
looked like trouble. I was wrong. You're good people. And this is a good place. I think our communities may be in a position to help each other.”

“So you’re saying that you have a colony somewhere?”, Carl asked. “And we’re supposed to just believe you. No questions asked?”

Jesus shrugged. “We’ve started raising life stock. Growing crops. Occasionally we scavenge.”

“Again, where’s the proof?” Carl didn’t break eye contact. “What would lead us to believe you and follow you somewhere? We’re doing good here. We don’t need help.”

Yet. It was for sure that, sooner or later, they would need it – everyone in the room here knew that. Their garden wouldn’t help them much once autumn and winter came, and they couldn’t cook everything in to maintain it. They couldn’t keep going on large supply runs in groups of two or three once it started snowing.

“For now, you’re alright”, Jesus agreed. “But apart from trade as a motivation, how about basic human kindness?”

Beth laughed, and Daryl scoffed.

“Supposing we do believe you”, Michonne said, slowly. “How would you prove it to us?”

“I would show you.” Jesus sat up a bit straighter. “We could get into a car and drive there, and you could all see for yourselves who we are and what we have to offer, and you could discuss specifics with our leader.”

Carl looked at his father, at Michonne, at Maggie and Abraham. He could see that the former soldier was very, very against the idea, Michonne was suspicious, Maggie was already thinking of at least twenty different exit strategies.

“Hold up”, Beth said. “Wait, you're looking for _more_ settlements. So your people are already trading with other groups?”

Jesus grinned. “Oh boy… your world’s about to get a whole lot bigger.”

“Not what I asked for.” She leaned forward on the table. “We already knew there were other groups. I want to know which ones your guys are trading with.”  
That was a pretty smart move, actually.

“At the moment?”

Beth didn’t move a muscle. “Did I stutter?”

“We’re not trading with anyone, but we’re in close contact with The Kingdom, and we’re aware of at least another community, Oceanside.”

Beth nodded slowly and leaned back in her seat.

An hour later, they had loaded up the RV and were getting ready.

“You’re sure about this?”, Carl asked, checking of the gas canisters were all closed properly.

“No.” His Dad sighed. “But if he’s telling the truth, that could be the start of everything.”

“True.” He clicked his tongue. “Still don’t trust that guy though.”  
“Daryl doesn’t either.”

Carl shrugged. “Now what does that say about him, or me?”

“Don’t get smart with me now, boy.”  
Carl decided to just give one of his rare shit-eating grins as an answer and got into the RV.

“You wrapped up your eye again”, Beth noticed. Carl shrugged. “Appearances.”

“Fuck that.”  
“Should we really turn up there with two Frankenstein kids?”

Beth made an offended noise. “You did not just say that!”

“Sorry, sorry.” He held up both hands in surrender. “Just one Frankenstein girl.”

She kicked him in the shin.

The RV started moving.

They made their way without any bigger instances – apart from a crash and impromptu rescue mission for some people from Jesus’ group. And then, they were there.

“Welcome to the Hilltop”, Jesus said with a grand gesture, pointing at a long, high wall made from tree trunks and metal sheets that sat on top of a very small very sorry excuse for a hill.

They made it past the gate – a large, rusted metal door with two halves – with only some trouble from the guards up on the wall, and were met with the sight of a small village of trailers, wall-less cabins of sorts and a large old-fashioned mansion with dozen of windows and a very clean façade. There were animals in kennels, they had a blacksmith by the looks of it… and they had crops.

Jesus walked ahead, explaining where they had found stuff and how the house – _Barrington House_ – had been a well-known museum, and then some more.

The main hall of the house looked like a set from a TV drama about the founding fathers or something.

“Good gracious Ignatius”, Abraham mumbled, and “Oh. Oh wow”, came from Beth.

A door opened, and a man stepped out. On the older side, grey hair, wearing a suit, clean.

“Jesus! You’re back! With guests…”

“Everyone, that’s Gregory.” Jesus leaned against the staircase-railing. “He keeps the trains running on time here.”

Gregory made a small pose, arms to the sides. “I’m the boss.”

None of the Alexandrians even feigned to look impressed.

“Well, I’m Rick”, his Dad said. “We’ve got a-“

“How about you get cleaned up first?”, Gregory interrupted them. “Uh, Jesus can show you where.”  
“We’re fine”, Rick said.

“Well, it’s hard to keep the place clean. Please.”

Carl bit down on his tongue to avoid a snarky comment. Jesus pointed them up the stairs and as they went up, Carl heard his father tell Maggie that she would be the one to talk to Gregory. Good plan – Maggie didn’t take shit from anyone.

Still, when she came back out, she looked furious and annoyed, but not like they had gotten themselves a deal.

After she had told them everything – that Gregory guy seemed to be a gigantic ass – Jesus tried to fix the damage. “We do want trade”, he assured them. “Gregory does. He just tries to get the best deal possible.”  
“Yeah, well, we want things too.” Daryl rolled his eyes.

“We came here to negotiate help with the food situation”, Michonne agreed. “We didn’t come here, all the way, for nothing.”

Jesus nodded. “I will talk to him, we’ll work something out. Circumstances change. We're doing well now, and you will next. I will make him understand that.”  
He looked each of them in the eye. “Can you give me a few days?”

Michonne nodded. “We can.”

Carl took of his hat and fiddled with the small dent in the brim. Sure, they _could_ give the Hilltoppers a few days, but was it worth it? Stalling was a normal technique when negotiating, but somehow he got the feeling that Gregory had another motive to refuse them the trade other than _wanting the best deal_. He couldn’t pinpoint why he thought so.

Before he could sink deeper into his own thoughts, there was yelling outside, the front door opened and two men came rushing in. Gregory opened the door to his study.

“What’s wrong?”, he asked.

“They’re back!”, one of the men announced, out of breath. “They're back.”

_They_ were three people who waited in the main yard of Hilltop when they came outside.

“Ethan!”, Gregory said, arms to the side in a welcoming gesture. “What happened to everybody else? Where's Tim and Marsha?”

The man he had spoken to, Ethan, clearly wasn’t as happy to see Gregory. “They're dead.

Gregory faltered. “What… Negan?”

Ethan nodded. “Yeah.”

“But… but we had a deal!”

“Yeah, well, he said it wasn't enough.” The man jabbed his finger against Gregory’s chest. “Was the drop light?”, asked the third man, who stood a few steps behind.

“No!” Gregory said it in a tone that insinuated _Are you people stupid or something?_

“They still have Craig”, the woman next to them chimed in.

“That’s right.” Ethan shifted the weight of his body from one leg to the other. “They said they'd keep him alive, return him to us, if I deliver a message to you.”

“So, tell me.”

Carl wasn’t entirely sure what happened next, but suddenly Gregory was half on the ground, half in Jesus’ and another man’s arms, and Rick and Abraham were trying to grab Ethan’s arms, who was throwing punches left and right without even looking, screaming: “Get off of me! I had to! I had to!”

Abraham was shoved to the side, Rick kicked up against Ethan’s crotch and then threw him to the ground, hands on his throat – Abraham was fighting the other man, who’d tried to get Rick off of his friend – chaos.

Carl wanted to storm forward, but Daryl and Michonne and Glenn were already on it – Daryl took care of the guy throttling Abraham, there was the sickening cracking of bones, Glenn approached Ethan and Rick, Ethan was now on top of the Alexandria leader, a knife at the throat – “Stay back! Anybody who tries to stop me is killing my brother!”

“Drop it!”, Michonne hissed, from the other side, her sword raised –

His father jammed his own knife upward and into Ethan’s neck.

Beth and Maggie were next to Jesus, holding Gregory and keeping a jacket pressed onto his torso. Daryl had a gun pointed at the guy who had been fighting Abraham, the latter slowly came to his feet, red in the face and coughing…

The Hilltoppers were staring at their group in shock. There had been chaos, now there was silence.

“Ethan!”, the second man screamed. “You killed him!”

Rick blankly stared at him, face and torso full of Ethan’s blood. “He tried to kill Gregory, then me.”  
The woman screamed and ran at Rick, only to be shoved to the ground by Michonne. Rick drew his gun, almost casually pointing it at his attacker.

“Drop your weapons!”, one of the door guards screamed, approaching with his spear. “Drop ‘em now!”

“I don't think I will.”

“Everyone, this is over!” Jesus ran into the middle between the guard and Rick, hands raised, looking at them sternly. “It's _over_. Ethan was our friend, but let's not pretend he was anything more than a coward who attacked us. _He_ did this. And these people stopped him.”

Apparently the long-haired lanky man had some authority here, or the Hilltoppers weren’t used to conflict, either way, they lowered their weapons. Reluctantly, so did the Alexandrians.

“ Dr. Carson was able to patch Gregory up”, Jesus informed them maybe an hour later. “He's in pain, but he'll live.”

“So, what happens now?” Michonne was lounging on one of the old-timey chairs, legs over one armrest, and looked at him questioningly.

Jesus scratched the back of his head. “Things like that don't usually happen here, but, uh, it's settled.”

“Who is Negan?” Carl observed him carefully, eye narrowed, arms crossed, back leaning against a bookshelf, trying to tell if the man was lying.

“Negan's the head of a group of people he calls the _Saviours_ ”, Jesus told them. “Almost as soon as the walls were built, the Saviours showed up. They met with Gregory on behalf of their boss. They made a lot of demands, even more threats. And he killed one of us. Rory.”

Jesus’ glance flickered over to Beth and Carl for a second. “He was 16 years old. They beat him to death right in front of us. Said we needed to understand, right off the bat.”

He laughed, but there was no joy in it, just bitterness. “Gregory's not exactly good at confrontation. He's not the leader I would've chosen, but he helped make this place what it is, and the people like him.”

“He made the deal”, Glenn supposed. Jesus nodded.

“He gets half of everything. Food, medical supplies, ammunition, you name it, half goes to the Saviours.”

Maggie turned around from the spot by the window, where she had been staring out onto the main yard and the blood spill on the ground. “And what do you get in return?”

“They don't attack this place. They don't kill us.”

“Then why not just kill them?”

Jesus actually laughed at Daryl’s suggestion. “Most of the people here don't even know how to fight, even if we had ammo.”

Rick wet his lips “How many people does that Negan have?”

“We don't know. We've seen groups as big as twenty.”

“Now, hold up.” Daryl cleared his throat. “So, they show up, they kill a kid, and you give them half of everything?”

“What else would we do?” To his credit, Jesus didn’t get defensive or angry.

Daryl shrugged. “Take ‘em out. These dicks ain’t shit, it’s just got a good story.”

Carl thought of the Governor, and then of Viola. He wasn’t so sure.

“How do you know it’s just a good story?” Jesus crossed his arms. “I would never risk anyone’s life for the chance that it might all be a big bogeyman-style lie, and neither would Gregory.”

“A while back”, Beth piped up. “We went to a place called _Terminus_. The people there were cannibals. One of ours sent a herd of Walkers their way and blew up part of their place. _One_ of ours did that. And then, a group attacked our colony. We killed them all.”

A bitter smirk crept onto her face. “There’s a shit-ton of assholes out there. They have different things they do and different themes but they’re all essentially the same. We took out other people like that and I doubt that this Negan is much different.”

Carl’s mind flashed back to that night in the forest, and the dismembered bodies.

Next to him, his Dad nodded.

“Yeah, we'll do it”, Daryl offered, sounding almost indifferent. “If we go get your man back, kill Negan, take out his boys, will you hook us up?”

“We want medicine”, Maggie added. “And supplies for our garden, and one of the cows.”

In a corner, Abraham let out a low chuckle. “Confrontation's never been something we've had trouble with.”

Jesus thought about it, then sighed. “I'll take it to Gregory.”

Carl watched him leave. “This is gonna cost us something”, he muttered after the door had fallen shut.

“For sure”, Beth agreed. “But I think it’s worth it.”

“Well, if things go bad, I’ll blame you and your grant emotional speech.”


	15. Another Day Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi people!  
> New chapter, new game, and I am telling you, I had THE HARDEST time writing this one… But I’m excited too because after this one, we’ll finally, finally get to meet Negan, so – yayyy for that!   
> Also, fun stuff I wanna talk about because it’s exciting: I started writing a book! It’s space-fantasy and I’m currently at about 9200 words and I know that’s not a lot yet but AGH it’s just exciting!  
> Okay, I’m calm… I’m calm…   
> Anyhow, as always, I hope you like this chapter, and remember, comments are food for heart and soul of a writer!  
> Loads of love and stay safe!  
> Lotta

They hadn’t allowed him to come along.

Which was probably for the best – the Hilltoppers didn’t have any teenagers, and if the Saviours had seen him in the car, by accident or something, they certainly would have known something wasn’t right – they would have remembered a kid with an eyepatch. Of course, it hadn’t been their plan to be seen, but you never knew. Maybe the Saviour Guards would have demanded to see who was inside the car. Maybe they would have demanded everyone to step out.

Also, while he had gotten good at aiming and shooting – and killing – even with one eye, they couldn’t risk bringing someone with vision impairment. You needed all eyes and ears on a mission like that.

Hearing that had hurt. A lot. But he knew that it was true. Even though his instinct was to deflect, to get defensive, to shout how he could still fight and how he could kill even with one eye and how he wasn’t a child anymore, at his core he knew that it was for the best.

But one thing he hated was waiting. Sitting around and waiting for something to happen, for news, for a message of success or failure. _For days_.

Beth hadn’t come with either, and she was growing just as antsy as he was. She was better at hiding it, but Carl noticed the chewed-down fingernails and the eyes flickering to the gate every few minutes, and how she practically threw herself into her chores.

His own tells were the bloody-plucked lower lip, dry frayed skin next to his fingernails from the scratching and the irritation, the way his voice was quiet and trembling, because if he weren’t quiet, he’d be yelling.

He didn’t know the specifics of the plan – the rough details hadn’t been decided on yet when they had gotten home – but he knew enough to overthink it. Again and again and again, in his mind, he made up horror scenario after horror scenario. He imagined about a million ways things could go wrong, a millions versions of the story after which he had to write his father and Daryl and Michonne, and Maggie and Glenn, Heath, Tara, Father Gabriel and Carol, up on the walls of Alexandria.

His lip was bleeding again. He didn’t even try to stop it anymore.

The bark of the tree was rough and hard against his back. His hat, his father’s hat, was on his knees, and he let his fingertips wander over the surface, weathered and scuffed, the golden cords dull now, the beads and tassels too, the small eyelet where the star had been was almost completely blackened.

_Hey, I'm like you now. We've both been shot_. He didn’t remember how his voice had sounded back then, just that it had been much higher, because of course it had been. He did remember how drained he had felt, and the look of his Dad in the yellow lighting of the bedroom, his hair wet, his eyes red and all puffy, his voice a bit thick still.

_Since you're in the club now, you get to wear the hat.  
_ His mind whirled around and around, from one memory to the next, and the next and the next – the farm, the RV, the campsite outside of Atlanta, his mother cutting his hair and something about frogs for some reason, the bright blue lake, then the farm again, the barn, the remainders of Sophia, his friend, limping out into the bright sunlight, and then the road, the prison, his mother on the floor, Judith covered in blood and screaming, while he sat on the floor, holding his ears shut, feeling nothing but empty, empty, empty… the tank, the small army outside their fence, a brief glance at Judith’s baby carrier, empty and bloodied, running, running, running…

He hit himself in the side with a fist to make himself snap out of it.

He didn’t _know_ if things had gone wrong.

He didn’t _know_ if his family was dead.

And as long as he didn’t know, panicking was a waste of time.

He took a shaky breath.

Focussed on things that _were_. Morgan _was_ building a proper prison cell. There _was_ a duck family living in the lake, God knew where they had come from. There _was_ a bundle of sunflowers in the garden. Billy _was_ one super-annoying goat that most recently had taken to escaping the paddock and going for walks in the town. Judith _was_ learning to speak, and to walk, and got better every day. And there _was_ a chance, a good chance even, that his family would return safely. Injured, bruised and beaten, probably, but safely.

It was only the second day they were gone.

No need to be so nervous.

Not that this logic conclusion of his stopped him from being nervous about it.   
He took another deep breath and climbed down from the treehouse.   
Did his chores. Walked around Alexandria with is baby sister on his shoulders. Ran after that stupid goat and seriously considered tying him to the fence. Helped Beth out. Helped Denise out. Hung out with Enid who had finally gotten the CD player working and had found some CDs not too scratched to play.

The day went by, night came.

Nightmares came.

He threw up in the bathroom while it was still dark outside.

In the afternoon the next day, his family came home.

The thing was, he didn’t mind being inside the walls. When he didn’t have to worry about people being outside. But according to his Dad, that Negan guy was dead. Which meant they had one thing less to worry about, which meant they now had a deal with the Hilltop colony. Which meant things were good.

But he also didn’t mind being outside. So when Denise asked him to take her to a nearby-ish strip mall to raid an apothecary, he said yes. They also ended up bringing Rosita along, and Daryl – because Denise had wanted him there and because Rosita insisted she wouldn’t “babysit” alone – and at some point there was a tree on the road and they had to abandon their beaten-up truck, but it wasn’t too bad. All things considered.

It seemed like Denise had had the right idea, because the pharmacy was untouched. Big white bottles full of medication, covered in a thick, felt-like layer of dust. They shoved them into their bags and left again – as quietly as they had come.

They were going along the train tracks, Rosita in the front, Carl in the back, Denise and Daryl in the middle. Things were calm. It was a sunny day. It was warm.

There were a few abandoned cars standing on the road next to tracks. All of them were the reasonable, functional type that small families used to have. They were covered in dust and dirt and the windows were almost blind.

No unusual sight.

Denise didn’t seem to think so – she left the tracks and walked her way over to one of them, an old blue one with a big dent in the fender.

“There's a cooler in there!”, she called out. “Might be something we can use inside!”

“We got what we came for!”, Carl shouted back, patting his backpack with one hand.

“Ain't worth the trouble”, Daryl agreed. “Come on!”

He started to walk away, Rosita following his example. They didn’t even think to wait on their number four. Carl took a second, then turned around and walked backwards, so he could keep Denise in his view. If she came after them, he’d turn front again.

She didn’t. She walked around the car – and opened the door.

Carl started running.

The Walker that had been inside the car was on top of Denise, snarling and hissing and trying to catch a bite. The woman, to her credit, did a good job at keeping his jaws away from her, then turning him over and ramming her knife down through the side of its skull, all before Carl, or Rosita and Daryl, had reached her.

Denise came to her feet, breathing heavily. Her glasses had fallen off in her fight with the Walker. Carl knelt down and picked them up.

“Thanks”, Denise managed to say, before emptying her guts right over the dead Walker.

Carl wrinkled his nose, but it was a reasonable reaction to a first Walker-kill.

Denise spat out one last time, wiped her mouth and went to get the cooler from the car.

“You okay?”, Carl asked. In his mind, he was screaming _Are you stupid? What the fuck?_ but he kept that to himself. Daryl wasn’t as tactile.

“What the hell was that?”, he demanded while Denise plucked a can of orange soda from the cooler “You could've died right there, you know that?”

Denise seemed surprisingly calm. “Yeah, I do.”

“Are you hearing me?!”

“Who gives a shit?” Denise got up again, angrily staring Daryl and Rosita down. “You could've died killing those Saviours, both of you, but you didn't! You wanna live, you take chances. That's how it works!” She put the soda can into her backpack. Shrugged. “That's what I did.”

At that, Carl raised an eyebrow. “For a couple damn of sodas?”

“Nope. Just this one.” Denise walked past them, back onto the train tracks.

Rosita shook her head, and Daryl was basically fuming. Carl was angry, too, but he decided to swallow it for now and to just keep following Denise.

This time, it was Rosita who had a different idea: “Are you seriously that stupid?”

“Are you?” Denise stopped, turned around to the other woman. “I mean it. Are you? Do you have any clue what that was to me, what this whole thing is to me?”

She was yelling again, and part of Carl wanted to hold her mouth closed so she didn’t attract anyone.

“See, I have training in this shit! I'm not… making it up as I go along, like, with the stitches and the surgery and the... I asked _you_ -“

She pointed at Daryl.

“-to come with me because you're brave like my brother and sometimes you actually make me feel safe. I wanted you-“

She pointed at Carl.

“-here because you’re out here all the time and you’re badass and you know how things work here. And I wanted you here-“

She pointed at Rosita.

“-because you're alone. Probably for the first time in your life. And because you're stronger than you think you are, which gives me hope that maybe I can be, too. I could've gone with Tara! I could've told her I loved her, but I didn't because I was afraid. _That's_ what's stupid. Not coming out here, not facing my shit! And it makes me sick that you guys aren't even trying because you're strong and you're smart and you're all really good people, and if you don't wake-“

There was a small, odd sound and something pointy and black came through Denise’s eye, shattering her glasses. She let out a gasp. “...up...”, she choked out. “And face your...”

She fell over, Daryl barely catching her – the bright green end of a crossbow bolt stuck out of her blonde hair – Rosita cocked her rifle, Carl pulled out his handgun – there were people coming from the woods on the other side of the tracks, armed with machine guns, and one of them with Daryl’s crossbow. Daryl’s crossbow that had been lost since the debacle with the W-people and the Walkers from the quarry.

“You drop 'em now!”, that man yelled. He had stringy blonde hair and a burn on one side of his face. With the hand that wasn’t holding the crossbow, he held Eugene in a tight grasp. What the fuck was Eugene doing outside the walls?

“You got something to say to me?”

The man with the burn scar looked at Daryl. Rosita shot him a confused glance. 

“You gonna clear the air? Step up on that high horse?” The man chuckled lowly. “No. You don't talk much.” A few of his men came over, guns drawn, and took all their weapons from them. Knives, guns, machetes. The scarred man half-lifted the hand holding the crossbow. “Still getting the hang of her. Kicks like a bitch, but-“

“I should've done it.” Daryl’s words came out as nothing more than a whisper.

“Oh, what's that? Seriously, I didn't catch what you said.”

“I should've killed you.”

Suddenly, Carl realized something. After the Walkers had been cleared out of Alexandria, Daryl had said a few gruff words about running into a man and two women, who had stolen his bike and his crossbow. The bike, the Saviours had had – and now here was a man with the crossbow.

“Yeah, you probably should've.” The man chuckled again. “Kind of begs the question, right? Who brought this on who? I mean, I get that you'll just have to take my word for this, but... _she_ wasn't even the one I was aiming for.”

At this point, a wide grin broke out on his face. “Like I said, kicks like a bitch.”

Carl was shaking. He forced himself to keep his anger down.

“It's nothing personal”, the man went on. “Look, this isn't how we like to start new business arrangements, but, well, you pricks kind of set the tone, didn't you?”

“What do you want?”, Rosita asked, sharply.

The man finally turned his attention away from Daryl to look at her instead. “I'm sorry, darlin', I didn't catch your name. I'm D, or Dwight. You can call me either. So? What's your name?”

“Rosita.” She practically spat the name out and at his feet. “What do you want?”

“Well, Rosita... it's not what I _want_. It's what you and Daryl and the boy there are going to do. You're going to let us into your little complex – it looks like it's just beautiful in there – and then you're going to let us take whatever and whoever we want... or we blow Eugene's brains out. And then yours. And then theirs.”  
There was that wide grin again. It made the scar tissue around his eye and along his cheek stretch and pull all weird. “I hope it doesn't come to that, really. Nobody else has to die. We just try and start with one. You know... maximum impact to get our point across.”  
He looked at Daryl again. “So what's it gonna be?”

“You wanna kill someone, you start with our companion hiding over there behind the oil barrels!”, Eugene yelled, suddenly. “He's a first-class a-hole and he deserves it so much more than us three.”

“Go check it out!”

Who- what the- Carl’s head whipped around and he caught a glimpse of something orange before Dwight’s men stormed over, and Eugene had his teeth sunken somewhere in Dwight’s crotch-area – shots were coming from the woods – Carl bent down and grabbed Denise’s machete from under her body, Daryl had dropped her and Dwight’s men hadn’t searched her – he lunged forward into the next best person – Daryl was attacking someone somewhere left of him, he couldn’t see Rosita – there was gunfire, and screaming from Dwight – Walkers emerged from the woods – more gunfire – Eugene at some point had finally let go of Dwight, who was collapsed on the tracks, yelling: “Fall back! Fall back!”

The men retreated, Daryl grabbed his crossbow back and followed – “Daryl, stop!”

“Someone has to tell Tara, when she and Pascal come back.”

Beth gave him a small pat on the shoulder. “I can do that.”

“I can, too.”  
Beth shrugged. “It’s fine.”

Secretly, Carl was thankful she had offered to do it. He didn’t know if he could. People died, that much was true, and he could deal with it even if it was hard, it was _telling_ people that someone had died he was unsure about.

They had buried Denise and planted yellow daisies on her grave, because Tobin had recalled that Denise liked those best. Daryl had taken the keyring with her and her twin brother’s name – Denise and Dennis. Rosita had put the can of orange soda in the fridge of Tara and Denise’s place.

Carl had climbed up to the treehouse and hadn’t come down for hours. He had a lot to think about. Tara, of course, and how she would react to her girlfriend being dead. How they would manage in Alexandria without a doctor. Maybe, in dire moments, they could go to Hilltop and pay visit to Doctor Carson, but that wasn’t something they could do every time, sometimes there was no time to get an injured person somewhere. He thought about his eye, and what would happen if someone got injured similarly, about Beth and the gunshot wound that had nearly shattered her arm and shoulder, and how Denise had been the one to save her in the end, he thought about the time at the prison when they’d had to amputate Hershel’s leg… now they only had Maggie and Beth with their limited knowledge that their father had passed down to them, and the collected basic first aid stuff the survivors had learned on the outside.

He thought about that Dwight guy, and the burn scar on his face. Daryl hadn’t given much detail when talking about the incident in the woods, but Carl was sure that if the scar had been there then, he would have said so. Because a scar like that wasn’t something you saw every day, so that was important. Daryl wouldn’t have left something like that out.

Which meant sometime in the two years since then, Dwight had encountered someone who had given him the scar, and Carl wasn’t sure if he wanted to meet the other guy.

Dwight had talked about a group. This isn't how _we_ like to start new things. You're going to let _us_ into your little complex. _We_ just try and start with one.

He’d been with a couple of people, but for some reason, he had a feeling that there were more. Dwight clearly had been the leader of that small group, but that meant none of them had scarred him, most likely anyhow… there was something he wasn’t seeing, one missing piece of the puzzle, and it drove him insane that he couldn’t find it.

Things were different from how they had been a few hours ago and he didn’t like it. Rosita had gotten his machete, Laurine’s machete, back from one of Dwight’s people, but not his gun. He had taken a new one from the armoury. It was from the Saviours their group had killed. There was something etched into the handle, something vaguely resembling a baseball bat, and a line around it. It reminded him of a logo from some humanitarian organisation his school had worked with back before the world had ended – a yellow logo with a candle wrapped in barbed wire. He wondered if it meant something.

He heard Daryl’s motorbike, and when he looked down, he saw him leave Alexandria. Glenn, Rosita and Michonne followed in the banged up orange mini-van, they were through the gate before he had even fully climbed down the tree and run over.

“Rosita says, she knows where Daryl’s going”, Maggie told him.

Carl knew, too. At least he had an idea.

“Stupid”, he mumbled. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”  
She didn’t look it, but Carl wasn’t one to pry. “Okay.”

He walked back home. Sat down on the porch with Judith. Read her something from a book she was probably still too young for.

And there he stayed until Enid came running from next door, shouting: “Help! Somebody!”  
He sat his sister down and ran towards Enid. Beth came running from the opposite direction, from the gardens.

“What’s wrong?”

“Enid, what’s wrong?”

“Maggie!”, Enid choked out. “She, she was… I was… and she…”  
Beth grabbed her by the arm and started running. Carl took Judith inside, told her to stay put and play for a moment and then followed them.

When he arrived, the door was open, and Maggie was on the kitchen floor, clutching her stomach, screaming in pain.

**Author's Note:**

> This Work is titled after "Ghost Story" from "The Last Ship Sails" and I will title every chapter after a line. I strongly suggest you give the song a listen, specifically the Broadway Version sung by Michael Esper.


End file.
